Black Feathers
by wylah
Summary: HP/DM. Between Voldemort, the Ministry, O.W.L.s, Umbridge, and the everyday problems of teenage life, Harry’s 5th year at Hogwarts looks to be a busy one. He doesn’t know the quarter of it.
1. Prologue: A Brief Addiction

**Black Feathers**  
by wylah

**Rated:** M  
**Warnings:** language, angst, sexual content - slash, mpreg (sort of), some violence & disturbing themes. Other warnings may be added later if necessary.  
**Disclaimers:** I do not own Harry Potter, his co-characters or the universe they inhabit; I merely play with them for my own amusement and I make no profit thereby. No copyright or trademark infringement is intended on my part.

Please be aware that this story will contain same-sex pairings, although any explicit scenes will be edited to comply with the rules of this archive. Don't like, don't read. If scenes are edited, the full versions will be available on my livejournal (see author's page for link)

**Summary:** Between O.W.L.s, the Ministry's attempts to discredit him, trouble with Voldemort and the Order and having to put up with Umbridge, all on top of the everyday problems of teenage life, Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts looks to be a busy one. He doesn't know the quarter of it. This is the tale of how a skeleton in the Evans family closet turns Harry's entire life upside down.

And yes, the prologue is meant to be confusing! All will be revealed... eventually.

* * *

**Black Feathers**

**Prologue: A Brief Addiction**

Friday night means drinks at Freddie's, a bar and jazz club near the office. It isn't the jazz they go for as much as the bar, although the unmarried blokes, and some of the married ones, will occasionally dance with a pretty girl. The place is glaringly modern, all chrome and colour. It's not really his thing, but it is convenient, and the others like it well enough.

They're still on the first of their usual three rounds when Symonds points her out to him, elbowing him in the ribs and saying that he's got an admirer. It isn't hard to pick out who he means. She's sitting at the bar where it borders the dance floor, wearing a pale blue dress that complements her long, dark red hair, nursing a martini and looking in his direction with a half-smile on her face. A smile that seems to widen slightly when he looks in her direction.

She's been watching you for the last ten minutes, Symonds says, half teasing, half envious. Never knew you were that good-looking, mate. Half the blokes in the room are staring at her, but she's looking at you.

Symonds is wrong, of course. Has to be, because he certainly isn't worth that sort of attention. He points this out, but Symonds is insistent. By this time the rest of the table want to know what they're arguing about, and he resigns himself to the inevitable banter and wittery. After some observation, the other blokes agree with Symonds, to his half-amused disbelief: she isn't blatant about it, but she is watching. He brushes the idea off, says that even if they're right she probably just reminds him of someone she knows.

Thompson comes up with a way to settle the question for certain: get the next round, and see if she watches him all the way to the bar. He's sure it's just an excuse to get him to shout out of turn, but agrees just to shut them up. He even goes over to the end of the bar where she's sitting. And, incredibly, Symonds is right. He can feel her eyes on him every step, and when he looks up and meets her gaze, she smiles at him - widely, brilliantly, beautifully, and he suddenly feels like he's the only other person in the room.

He says hello, hesitantly, feeling awkward. If he ever was practiced at this sort of thing, he certainly isn't now. She returns the greeting, her voice a throaty, warm contralto, but before he can say anything else - not that he has any idea of what to say - the barman is asking for his order. He waits while the pint pots are filled, expecting her to say something, perhaps 'You seem so familiar, do I know you?' or 'You look just like a friend of mine,' but she appears content to watch the barman work the taps. The man is finished too quickly, and there remains only to drop the money in his hand, pick up the tray and go back to his mates, who in contrast will no doubt have plenty to say. So, inwardly shrugging, he looks up to smile his goodbye, but finds himself looking directly into deep green eyes, and the realisation hits him that she is the most beautiful woman he's ever seen. He wants to do something to impress her; for a second he's tempted to tell her of all the great things he's ever done, and invent a few more for good measure. But he's always had a dislike of boastfulness and a horror of making a fool of himself, so, though his knees feel oddly weak and his head dizzy, he clutches hard at his self-control and turns away with only the polite smile of parting strangers.

When he reaches the table all his mates are grinning and tossing smart remarks at him that he barely hears for wondering what on earth just happened. A few minutes later when he dares to look back towards the bar, he finds she's been surrounded by young men vying for attention. He feels vaguely disappointed, which is quite ridiculous, because it isn't as if he could really have stayed and talked to her anyway.

By the time they're leaving she's on the dance floor, although he thinks he sees her glance in his direction as he turns towards the door. He wonders if she'll be there next Friday, then scolds himself for even thinking about it. He tells himself sternly that if her presence inspires such foolish, unsettling ideas, he hopes he'll never see her again.

The next Friday, she's there. And the Friday after that. Sitting at the bar, nursing a martini, half the men in the room staring at her, but she only looks at him. He knows he should find it worrisome, but instead it's exciting in a way that's entirely inappropriate for a married man, and the feeling won't go away no matter how many times he scolds himself.

The Friday after, it's starting to look like she's a permanent fixture, and he wonders if maybe he shouldn't try to strike up a conversation with her, to at least give her the opportunity to tell him that he reminds her so much of her favourite brother or cousin. He ignores both the sinking feeling that idea gives him, and the remnant of common sense that tells him he should simply stay away. Once more he says hello as he leans on the bar waiting for the tray of pints, and she smiles demurely as she replies. He asks casually if she comes here every Friday - and then winces because it sounds like a pick-up line, and a cheap one at that. But she doesn't seem to notice; answers that she came with a group of friends several weeks ago, and they liked the look of the place - and was that the slightest of flirtatious glances he saw? - so they keep coming back. He remarks that they'll probably see a lot of each other then, as he's there every Friday. She says she hopes so, and this time there's no question about that little glance upwards through long dark eyelashes. He knows he should be dismissive, let her know he isn't interested, perhaps even mention his wife - but it's rather flattering, after all, to have a beautiful, obviously well bred young woman so attracted to him. They've only had the briefest of conversations, and she'll no doubt find someone more interesting to flirt with soon, so it's all perfectly harmless, really. He smiles at her as he says goodbye, and she smiles back, and for a brief moment he feels once more as if he'd do anything in the world if only to impress her. This time he ignores the flash of emotion; after all, such feelings are surely harmless unless one acts upon them, and he certainly isn't going to do that.

The next weekend she's there, but she seems to be distracted. It's silly, he supposes as he frowns into his pint, to feel disconcerted because she isn't watching him. He makes some excuse to go to the bar, and realises that he must have been mistaken, because she's as friendly as before. He notices for the first time that she speaks with a slight lilt - Welsh, perhaps, or Irish - only on a few words, but he finds it attractive. He doesn't talk to her for long - his workmates would notice, and start up about it again - but she suggests he stay for a little while after they leave. And where's the harm in that? She talks like an intelligent woman, and it would be pleasant to have an uninterrupted conversation with her.

--

It became a habit to stay for an extra twenty minutes after the lads had gone, to talk to Moira - that was her name, Moira. She was a pleasant conversationalist, and it was a perfectly harmless thing to do, after all. There was no reason anyone could think he was being unfaithful to his wife in any way - not that anyone would ever find out, as he made it a habit to pretend he was leaving with his mates and then double back. But there was nothing immoral about it, even if he did sometimes wonder what it would be like if he wasn't married and could enjoy more than just her conversation, even if he sometimes lost track of time while in her company, even if her voice and her habit of touching his arm did make his heart beat faster and his knees weaken, even if her laugh made him smile and her very presence made him want to be a great man just so he could tell her of great things he had done. It was all perfectly innocent, just two adults enjoying each other's platonic company in a public venue.

It became much less innocent the night he found himself kissing her in the park across the road from the club. A chaste brush of lips on cheek - the first kiss she'd given him - turned into something much less chaste and much more wonderful, so wonderful that he didn't wake up to the enormity of what he had done until she was gone. At first he blamed it on having too much to drink, vowed that it would never happen again. He finally decided, as he walked home in an unpleasant daze, that he couldn't meet her any more. The next Friday he pretended to feel ill after work, and instead of going to the club he went home and spent the evening with his family. It didn't help, though. Despite his resolve, he couldn't stop thinking of her, of her creamy skin, red lips, the indefinable scent that hung around her, the taste and texture of her mouth… it was like an addiction, and the more he resisted the more he needed to taste her again. Finally he decided that he had to meet her at least once more, if only to tell her why this couldn't continue, if only to apologise…

He tried. She was devastated when he told her he was married, fleeing the little table in tears, and he sat back, feeling hollow and bereft, but at the same time a little relieved that now he could get back to his normal, uncomplicated life.

When he walked into the club with his mates the next Friday, she was at her old seat at the bar, as beautiful as ever, with half the men in the room looking at her. And she was looking at him.

He shouldn't have stayed after his mates left that night. Shouldn't have stayed all the following Friday nights. Shouldn't have started slipping out to meet her on other evenings, making obvious excuses to Pansy. He shouldn't have almost believed her when she told him that they were meant for each other, that she couldn't live without him, that she'd die if she never saw him again. After all, if it were true, he couldn't give her up; he had a moral obligation to stay with her, really. When he was with her, he almost felt the same way himself. But then he'd go home to the wife he loved and the daughter who adored him and wonder what the hell he was doing, and swear to break it off… until the longing became too much and he had to see her. She was an addiction, an obsession. When he was with her, the guilt went away.

After nearly three months of this, Pansy confronted him. Asked him if he was seeing someone else, and he couldn't deny it. He saw the hurt in her eyes and suddenly realised afresh all that he was risking for these illicit trysts. She didn't scream or cry - that was the best thing about Pansy, she never got hysterical - she told him quietly and firmly that he had to make a choice, and left him sitting at the kitchen table to make it. It didn't take very long.

The last time that he saw her, Moira didn't scream or cry either. She laughed, actually, said with a catch in her voice that she was lucky to have had as much time as she had; that he was a good man and she was sorry she had led him astray. She should have just gone away when he told her he was married, instead of risking his family's future for her own. He recited the comforting phrases he'd rehearsed, said that she'd find a better man than him, that there was someone out there just for her. She smiled sadly, knowingly, at the words, and gently kissed him goodbye.

Afterwards he went home to Pansy, distressed by the parting but already feeling relieved that his life would be simple again, that he wouldn't have to struggle every day with his emotions and his principles, always feeling that he was in the wrong no matter which way he turned. Pansy was distant for some time, of course, but he knew he deserved it. He was suitably - and honestly - apologetic, tried his best to be a perfect husband, bought her small presents and spent as much time at home as he could. Within three months, his life was back to normal and he was wondering what on earth had led him to act like such an incredible fool. And although he remembered Moira with some affection, he also wished that he had never met her.

And he thought that was the end of it.


	2. 1: Just a Kid

**Black Feathers**

**Chapter 1: Just a Kid.**

It was an unseasonably cool August night in central London, with mercilessly clear skies vindicating the TV weathermen, who just that evening had cheerfully informed the demoralised gardeners of south-east England that there was no end in sight to the drought. A sickle moon was westering over the tangled streets of the city, illuminating the ancient metropolis with rays of soft white light that caressed stone and slate, slid awkwardly over sharp angles of steel and glass, and faltered when they met the harsh, orange-tinted glow of the streetlamps.

The gentle moonlight did nothing to soften the ugliness of Grimmauld Place. The row of once-stately houses surrounding a small park - a thing of rusted railings and rotting benches, tatty grass and depressed-looking shrubbery - seemed almost to slump in the uncertain light, as if weary of their existence, merely waiting for some enterprising contractor to extract them one by one and install straight, shiny, custom-made replacements. There was no sign of life in street or park, unless one counted a stray cat slinking through the shadows and pausing to sniff at the rubbish bags piled outside the gate of Number Eleven. The moonlight gleamed in broken windows and in discarded bottles and soft-drink cans. It glowed in the recently-polished silver doorknocker of Number Twelve; not that any casual passer-by could have seen that, for unless you knew the secret - one of it's many, many secrets - Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was invisible.

Inside the house, moonlight filtered through the layers of grime on the window of a second-floor room, faintly illuminating the twin beds set to either side. In one was a blanket-covered lump that emitted loud, irregular snores. In the other lay Harry Potter, who, despite having had a very long and revelation-packed day (even for him), was finding it quite impossible to sleep. It wasn't Ron's snores that were keeping him awake, although they were now reaching levels that would have impressed a mountain troll; four years of sharing a dormitory had seen to that. It wasn't the lumpy mattress and vaguely musty smelling blankets, either. The problem lay with his own brain, which, despite grainy eyes and a nagging headache, simply refused to shut up and turn itself off.

Harry rolled over for the umpteenth time, thumping his head into the pillow as if that would jar his brain out of replaying the events of the past few days over and over. At the rate he was going it'd be morning before he got to sleep. He sighed and, temporarily giving up the attempt, opened his eyes.

Half the problem with him, he reasoned, was that he was feeling guilty. He'd acted like a right prat today, yelling at Ron and Hermione like that. They'd been really decent about the whole thing, though, saying they would have been just as angry if they were in his place. Harry snorted. _Anyone_ would have had trouble hanging on to his temper after the week he'd had. It just showed how screwed up his life was, that he couldn't officially label it the Worst Week Ever.

_How the _hell_ do a pair of Dementors just turn up in Little Whinging? _he wondered for the thousandth time, The obvious answer - also for the thousandth time - was that they didn't. Someone had to have sent them. Harry rolled over again and stared short-sightedly at the ceiling, as if hoping to find a different answer written there. He'd known Voldemort was after him - what else was new? - and that the Dementors might eventually join the snake-faced bastard, but as far as he'd been told all the Dementors were still under Ministry control. He grimaced, almost hoping that Voldemort _had_ got hold of some of them, despite the problems that would cause. With this stupid Underage Magic hearing coming up, if the Ministry really was out to get him, really wanted to shut him up, he'd probably never see Hogwarts - or his wand - again.

_Mustn't think about that_, he reminded himself. It wouldn't help. He couldn't do anything but tell them what happened and hope they believed it, hope that there were people there who weren't in on the plot. In the meantime, it was much better to just think of something else.

That wasn't too hard to do, although his mind did want to keep sliding back to the - to _that_ thing. He had enough things to think about to last him the rest of his life, really. So much had happened recently that he felt unsteady, off-balance; it was as if someone had turned his life upside down and shaken it, until all the bits and pieces of it had fallen into new places. Dementors in Little Whinging. Mrs Figg - whom he'd known all his life - a Squib! Dumbledore setting people to watch him; and he didn't know if he was more annoyed that they'd been babysitting him like that, or that they hadn't even told him they were doing it. Uncle Vernon actually asking him about magic. Aunt Petunia knowing about Azkaban. That horrible letter telling him he was expelled from Hogwarts for using magic at home and that his wand would be broken, and then the note from Mr Weasley telling him they were trying to fix it and _don't do magic! Don't leave the house!_ - never mind that his uncle was just about to throw him out! Sirius' note, too - _everyone_ acting as if it was _his bloody fault_ that he'd had to do magic to save his own life - and Dudley's, too! What did they expect him to do, drop his wand, run screaming for help and leave Dudley to be Kissed? Hell, he almost wished he had - well, maybe not the first two things. Anyway, it wasn't like he'd even known there was someone around he _could_ run to for help, because naturally they _HADN'T BLOODY TOLD HIM!!_

He let out an sound of pure frustration which made Ron snort in his sleep and go quiet. For a moment Harry was tempted to wake his friend all the way up - it was almost insulting, sleeping so bloody loudly when other people couldn't get a wink. His conscience, and his pride, got the better of him though, and the snores soon started up again, leaving Harry to his angry thoughts.

After all that had happened there'd only been the letter from the ministry taking back the expulsion notice but telling him he was suspended until the official hearing, and then Dumbledore's cryptic Howler to Aunt Petunia that had somehow convinced her not to kick Harry out. And then _nothing_. No concerned visitors checking on him, no letters, not even a note asking if he was sure he was quite all right! He didn't _really_ expect to be congratulated for fighting off the Dementors, Harry admitted - he'd taken on dozens of the things when he was only thirteen - but it would have been nice if Dumbledore or even Mr Weasley had sent _something_! It would have been even nicer if Ron and Sirius and Hermione had answeedr the notes he'd sent them, too, even if it was just to say 'see you soon, more then'! Three whole days without a word, his brain going in circles trying to figure out what the hell was going on and if he'd ever see Hogwarts again… At that thought, Harry tugged irritably at the blankets and squirmed over again, feeling more uncomfortably awake than ever.

Then today everything had suddenly started happening at once. Strange wizards in Aunt Petunia's kitchen, staring at him as if he was a new species - or maybe just the bloody _Boy Who Lived_. Flying to London - Harry suddenly grinned under the blankets, his foul mood lifting. That had been the best fun he'd had all summer, chasing Tonks through the sky at top speed, and loving every minute despite the bitter cold. Seeing Ron and Hermione again had been great, too, though they'd both gaped at him like he had two heads, for some reason. And then he'd nearly ruined everything by yelling at them, even though he knew it wasn't really their fault Dumbledore had made them promise not to put anything important in their letters, or that they'd been having fun at Grimmauld Place while he was stuck at the Dursleys. It still made his chest hurt to think about it though, even now he was here.

His friends had been really great about his outburst - Harry felt another rush of irritated guilt - and they'd had a lot to tell him, as had Fred, George and Ginny when they turned up. He'd found out about the Order of the Phoenix, and had been relieved that there was a whole group of people like Professor Lupin and Moody and Tonks that were willing to fight Voldemort. But he'd also learned that the stupid Ministry wouldn't believe that Voldemort was back because the sneaky bastard was lying low, and that Dumbledore had been kicked off the Wizengamot and the International Confederation for trying to convince them, and that Fudge was a cowardly idiot who thought the whole thing was a scheme to try and depose him as Minister, and that the _bloody_ Daily Prophet was telling _everyone_ that Harry was - what was it Hermione had said? - an attention-seeking _child_ who thinks he's a great tragic hero.

"Well, fuck them," Harry snarled, as he angrily rolled over again. "And bugger this for a joke," he added viciously, kicking off his blanket and reaching for his glasses. He levered himself out of the clinging embrace of the old bed with some difficulty, spared an envious glance at the snoring lump in the other bed, and snagged a jumper as he headed for the door. After a quick stop in the bathroom he padded down the main stairs, skirting the stuffed house-elf heads that decorated the wall, then tiptoed through the front hall, shooting cautious glances at the covered portrait of Mrs Black. He was almost tempted to wake her up - he felt in the mood for a shouting match - but he really didn't want to explain that to everyone else when the noise brought them downstairs.

The gas lamps in the kitchen flared as Harry entered, and he blinked and squinted at the sudden light, glancing around. The room had looked vast earlier that evening, even with a dozen people taking up space around the central wooden table, but now it seemed even more cavernous. The dim corners and high ceiling made it hard to judge where the walls actually ended, and the moving shadows cast by the flickering gas jets only added to the effect. It was almost eerily silent, too, especially after listening to Ron's snores for hours and then being startled by the horrendous gurgling groan the ancient loo had made when it was flushed. For a second Harry had thought that something had taken up residence in the cistern and was objecting violently to being evicted.

He'd never been the nervous sort though, even when he wasn't in a foul mood, and his mind turned immediately to more practical matters, such as the empty feeling in his stomach. Thankfully Mrs Weasley had banked the open fire rather than letting it go out. Milk was easy to find, and a quick look through the old-fashioned cupboards produced a small cauldron. The only arrangements for cooking in the open fireplace were a couple of hearth cranes with chains and hooks at the ends, which was a bit daunting, but four years of Potions lessons had taught Harry a lot about cooking over an open fire. As he hung his cauldron of milk on a hook and swung it over the coals he wondered with exasperation if it could really be that hard for wizards to adapt to electricity. Or even a gas stove, for crying out loud.

He'd found a tin of biscuits and was rooting around in the pantry for cocoa when he heard footsteps coming down the kitchen stairs. Poking his head out of the pantry door he saw Bill Weasley, rumpled from sleep, wearing nothing but a pair of pyjama trousers - a sight which made Harry's eyes widen momentarily despite his bad mood. It was a very good thing he'd got over that thing he'd had for Bill, he thought absently, or he'd probably be blushing bright red about now, and babbling like an idiot as well. As it was he managed a reasonably coherent greeting.

"Hey, Bill. What are you doing up?"

"Heard someone wandering around and decided to investigate. Is that cocoa?" Bill yawned hugely.

"Yeah. Better stick a bit more milk in the cauldron if you want some, though. Where does your mum keep the cocoa powder? I've been looking for it for about forever."

"On the mantelpiece with the tea." Bill grinned, indicating it with a thumb.

Harry emerged from the pantry and glared at the prominently placed cocoa tin. "Figures," he grumbled half-heartedly. He snagged mugs and spoons from the draining rack on his way to the table. Bill sat down opposite him as soon as he'd put the milk back in the cool cupboard.

"Couldn't sleep?" Bill asked cheerfully, as he added a fourth spoonful of cocoa powder to his mug.

Harry shrugged as he reached for the tin. He didn't think Bill needed to hear about his problems, and he'd rather not think about them any more either, if he had a choice. But apparently he didn't.

"So how are you holding up?"

Harry decided that he really hated that question. If he said 'fine' he'd be lying. If he said anything else, he'd be complaining.

In the end he settled for shrugging again, hiding his irritation. "All right, I suppose," he said, and cast about for something to say that would change the subject.

"Everyone's been in a right fuss about you. You really can find trouble anywhere, can't you?" Bill ribbed gently. But it was enough to make Harry lose his fragile grip on his temper.

"I don't _find_ trouble," he growled, gripping his mug so tightly that his knuckles whitened. "Trouble bloody well finds_ me,_ and I am fed up with people acting like it's always my fault! Not that they say what I should have done instead, but then they don't tell me anything anyway, so -" He stopped abruptly and ran a hand through his hair in frustration, realising that, yet again, he was taking his anger out on someone who wasn't to blame. He couldn't make himself care that much, though. He was just too tired and overwhelmed and sick of everything to try and be polite, even to Bill. Although he thought he probably should apologise. But Bill was already talking.

"Look, I know how you feel - it's a right pain being a teenager and wanting to be grown up. But they did tell you a lot tonight, even though you're just fifteen -"

Harry exploded. "YOU DON'T HAVE A FUCKING _IDEA_ HOW I FEEL! YOU -" he saw the expression on Bill's face, realised he was half-standing, half leaning across the table towards the man, and felt another distant pang of guilt - but it wasn't enough to stop him altogether. He abruptly sat back down and continued in a tense voice. "Look, this is going to sound like I'm up myself, but I'm _not_ 'just fifteen'. Even before Hogwarts, I don't think I ever was a kid, not really. And since then I've done more than other kids my age, I've seen more…" he struggled for words, frustration surging against the barrier of speech. "Ron and Hermione have too, but people want to treat us like babies, to protect us. And that's stupid, 'cause whatever they do I still somehow or other keep coming up against Voldemort or Dementors or whatever. Every year, there's something out to get me, or people getting hurt and I'm the only one who can do something about it. I can't afford to be a kid, and it's just stupid to pretend I can.

"Sirius thinks so - you heard him tonight. I thought Dumbledore knew it - he made me compete in the Tri-Wizard Tournament, against Krum and Ce - and the others. And the whole bloody thing was ridiculous because everyone cheated, but I still got _through_ it. I've fought off dozens of Dementors, I've outflown a dragon, I've killed a basilisk and faced Voldemort three bloody times, and even if half of it was luck I still _did _it, so what the _fuck _do I have to do to prove to everyone I'm NOT just a fucking _KID_!!"

As his voice faded away, Harry realised he'd been shouting again, and was suddenly ashamed. It wasn't much good trying to tell people he was grown up if he kept throwing tantrums. He slumped in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, and rubbed at his aching forehead, deliberately not looking at Bill. "Sorry."

Bill sat quietly for a moment before he got up, and Harry wondered if he was going to walk out. He wouldn't have blamed him. But instead he heard the squeak of the hearth crane, and a quietly incanted levitation spell. The cauldron of milk floated gently over to the kitchen table, tipping itself into the mugs before gliding back to the fireplace. A minute later, Bill sat down again, putting a dark brown bottle on the table in front of him. Harry couldn't think of a thing to say, so he busied himself stirring his cocoa and fishing bits of milk-skin out of his mug with his teaspoon.

"Here," Bill said neutrally, as he unscrewed the lid of his bottle. "Have some of this, it'll help you sleep." He tipped a generous dollop of honey-brown liquid into Harry's mug. It smelt alcoholic.

"What is it?" he asked doubtfully.

"Rum," Bill replied, adding a similar amount to his own cocoa. Harry thought of Seamus, and one side of his mouth quirked up almost despite itself. This wasn't the first time he'd had something stronger than butterbeer - he'd tried some of Aunt Petunia's vodka once, carefully refilling the bottle to the right level with water, but that had tasted horrible. Maybe this would be better.

Bill took a sip of his cocoa, and started talking, slowly, as if feeling his way. "It is sort of hard to remember all the things you've done. Usually, anyway. I mean, to me you're my baby brother's best friend, and I can remember Mum teaching me how to change his nappies, you know?"

Harry made a face at his cocoa. "That's a really bad image," he mumbled, and Bill grinned, relaxing a bit. Harry kept talking, fumbling for the words. "Look, I don't want people to keep remembering all that stuff, really. I just want them to realise that I can look after myself - I've been doing it my whole life." He abruptly buried his face in his mug - he didn't really want to explain the Dursleys to Bill. The rum-laced cocoa mostly tasted like cocoa, which surprised him a bit, but there was an extra warmth to it that made the back of his throat tingle and settled nicely in his stomach.

Thankfully Bill just continued with what he'd been saying. "Maybe we don't really want to remember - it's pretty terrible, all you've been through." Harry hid a scowl behind his mug - he didn't want to think about people feeling sorry for him, either. "I know Mum feels awful that she hasn't been able to do more to help you - you're one of the family now, you do know that, don't you?"

Harry suddenly felt a warm glow that wasn't entirely attributable to the rum. He had known, sort of, but it was nice hearing it.

"And then there's the fact that you are the Boy Who Lived - if people are going to remember what you've done, that's the first thing they'll think of -"

"But that's the worst thing of all!" Harry burst out, setting his mug down. "I was just a baby, and I don't even remember doing it and I don't have a bloody clue how to do it again." His voice dropped to a whisper as he finished.

"Is that what you think? That you're going to have to kill Voldemort again?" Bill's voice was incredulous.

"Well, yeah." He'd never really thought about it, Harry realised, he'd just assumed, subconsciously, that it was his responsibility. After all, he'd done it once already; more if you counted Quirrell and the diary. And it was his blood that had brought the bastard back, when he'd been too weak to prevent it.

"Has anyone actually told you that? Dumbledore?" Bill asked sharply, eyes intent on Harry's face. Harry looked away.

"No-oo. It's just - well, whenever it comes up, people just… _look_ at me. And then every time Voldemort tries anything, I'm the one that ends up in his way. It's like it's fate or something." He shrugged.

Bill leaned back in his chair and whistled through his teeth. "No wonder you're so wound up, if that's what you thought. On top of everything else, too... Bloody hell, Harry!"

It did sound a bit stupid now he'd actually said it, Harry realised, feeling a small rush of hope. Maybe Bill was right. Maybe he had been stupid, arrogant even, to think that he was the one who had to kill Voldemort, like the destined hero in a fairytale. That reminded him, rather sickeningly, of the _Prophet's_ accusations. But inside he wasn't so sure, and the conversation was starting to make him uneasy.

Bill was obviously thinking too, staring absently at the broad hands clasped around his mug. He finally spoke up, measuring his words as he said them.

"You-Know-Who's got a grudge against you, there's no arguing about that. But I don't know of anyone who thinks that it's your job to kill him. I'm not saying you can't do a lot to help - you're bloody powerful, from what I've heard, plus you're living proof for everyone that he can be beaten; and we can use his obsession with you against him one of these days, too. But we're all going after him, Harry. It's a matter of who gets to him first."

Harry smiled weakly, but didn't reply. He really hoped Bill was right, but he was also starting to wish he hadn't said so much. Bill was a nice bloke, and it was great of him to want to help, but it wasn't his problem. And this heart-to-heart business was a bit overwhelming. Harry suddenly felt very tired, but Bill was talking again.

"For what it's worth, I think Sirius is right - you do need to know what's going on. It's a fair sight easier to just tell you lot than to be tripping over Gred and Forge's bloody extendable ears every time you open a door." He grinned wryly. "But you need to realise that Dumbledore and the rest aren't going to tell you everything. I don't know everything, either. You're not stupid, you know that the more people know a secret, the more likely it is the cat will be let out of the bag, accidentally or otherwise. So no-one knows anything they don't need to. Dad says that You-Know-Who will start kidnapping and torturing people for information sooner or later, same as last time. Not that he needs to torture them much - he's a Legilimens, did you know that?"

Harry set down his mug with a thunk, suddenly awake again. "He can read people's minds? Oh, crap."

"Yeah. So don't worry about being the only one left in the dark. It isn't just you."

That made a lot of sense, now Harry thought about it. Much more than 'You're-too-young-and-we-can't-trust-you.' Why the hell couldn't they have said all this in the first place? Not that it really made him want to know what was happening any less, although he shouldn't, should he, after what Bill said? Was that arrogance, too? - to still want to be let in on Order business even if it Knowledge suddenly seemed a very dangerous thing. He shuddered at the thought of Voldemort picking through his mind.

He really didn't want to think about himself or his problems any more, or any other confusing subjects. He'd whinged enough for tonight, and it wasn't like Bill could do anything anyway. He also considered asking Bill about the secret weapon Voldemort was looking for , but decided that probably wasn't very sensible after Bill had just lectured him about secrecy. Come to that, he wasn't sure he still wanted to know.

"So how's Fleur?" he asked instead. He didn't know Bill well enough to tease him, but there was no harm in asking.

"The kids told you about us, did they?" Bill asked comfortably, apparently content to change the subject.

The talked about light matters as they finished their cocoa, like how Bill was adjusting to being back in England at a desk job, and what OWLs Harry was taking. Harry even asked about Percy - the twins had told him about the row their brother had had with their parents, but he still couldn't understand how anyone could just cut themselves off from their family like that. Bill wasn't keen to talk about it, though, so Harry changed the subject again quickly. Once or twice he thought he caught Bill staring at him, like all the others had earlier, but he wasn't sure. Bill covered it well if he was.

It wasn't much longer before they were both yawning. Harry started to get up to put his mug in the sink, but paused.

"Thanks, Bill," he said awkwardly. "And - sorry I yelled. Before."

"No worries," Bill said cheerfully as he pushed his chair back from the table. He picked up his wand and cast _Tempus_. The glowing numbers read 4:08. "Yep, definitely bedtime. Reckon you'll be able to sleep?"

"Yeah, I'll do," Harry said optimistically. They quickly rinsed their mugs and went upstairs. Bill said goodnight when they reached the second landing, and Harry opened his bedroom door to a barrage of familiar snores. He stripped off his jumper and slid into bed, half expecting his brain to start ticking over again, but whether it was due to the late hour, the cocoa, the rum or all three, the next thing he knew he was curled into a warm ball under the covers and George's loud voice was filling the sunlit room.

To be continued…

* * *

**A/N 1.** Disclaimer. Parts of this chapter summarise, paraphrase or quote directly from the early chapters of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Anything you recognise is not mine, and is only included in this fic to establish a relationship with canon events.

**A/N 2.** I know you've heard most of this before, but I did want to set the scene for those who haven't read OotP in a while, and to establish a few other things while I was at it. The next few chapters will also seem rather familiar, but don't worry; things will be changing soon. ; )


	3. 2: Toujours Pur

Please refer to the first chapter for disclaimers, warnings etc.

Enjoy!

* * *

**Black Feathers**

**Chapter 2: Toujours Pur**

"Oi, Harry! Mum says to get up, it's nearly lunchtime. Lucky git, having a sleep-in - we've been spraying Doxies all morning. Look!"

Harry cracked open his bleary eyes to find a hairy, beetle-winged, four-armed fairy dangling over his face. He yelped and scrabbled backwards up the bed, then groped hurriedly for his glasses amidst the resulting gales of laughter.

"Bet that woke you up," George grinned unrepentantly - at least, Harry thought it was George. The red-headed prankster carefully stowed the unconscious doxy in his pocket. The other twin was sitting on Ron's empty bed and snickering.

"Aren't those things poisonous?" Harry asked pointedly, trying to glare through a stifled yawn.

"Yep," Fred answered airily. "Your throat closes up when they bite you - not all the way, but enough to make you sound like you're dying. Feel like it too, probably."

"We reckon something with Doxy venom would be great for our Skiving Snackboxes," George added, sitting beside his brother.

"Skiving Snackboxes?" Harry asked curiously, sitting up and twisting to reach an itch on his back.

He half-listened to the twins' explanations about Puking Pastilles and Nosebleed Nougats that would make you sick for just long enough to get out of class. They sounded like a good idea, but he didn't think he'd be trying them yet - not until they'd done some more work on the antidotes, anyway.

"So the joke shop's still on then," Harry commented once the enthusiastic descriptions had come to a standstill.

"It will be, mate -"

"- thanks to you -" Fred interjected with a grin.

" - but we're running it as an owl-order service at the mo', 'til we work up some more products. And get through school." Both twins grimaced at that. "The first ad.s were in the _Daily Prophet_ last week." Harry looked up quickly and George grinned reassuringly. "Nah, don't worry, Mum hasn't got a clue."

"Yeah, she won't look at the _Prophet_ any more 'cause of it telling lies about you and Dumbledore."

Harry relaxed again. He really didn't want Mrs Weasley finding out he'd given his Tri-Wizard Tournament winnings to the twins. Their plans to start a joke shop didn't amuse her in the least.

"So what happened last night? Mum said you'd had a late night, but we all went to bed at the same time…" George's eyes were sharp, and Fred wore an expression of hopeful curiosity. Harry felt a pang of annoyance. He got up and went to his trunk for some clothes, hoping the twins would get the hint and get out. Why couldn't people leave him alone? Couldn't he even have a restless night without them poking their noses in?

"Couldn't sleep, that's all," he said shortly. "I ran into Bill in the kitchen when I went to get some cocoa - he must've said something."

"Oh, okay" George said, sounding disappointed. "We just wondered-"

" -'cause you know how things always happen around you." Fred finished, hauling himself to his feet with due care for his Doxy-filled pockets. George followed his example.

"Anyway, we'd better stow these things somewhere safe in case they wake up. Mum says to come down to the first floor drawing room when you're ready."

"Yeah, she's bringing lunch up for us kiddies 'cause there's Order stuff happening downstairs. See you!" The twins bounced out the door, leaving an even more irritated Harry behind them. 'Things always happen around you'? What was he, some sort of sideshow?

Twenty minutes later, Harry was jogging down the stairs in a much better mood. To start with, he'd taken good advantage of the privacy of a shower with no-one banging on the door and telling him to hurry up. Then he'd found out - too late - that the twins had substituted Weasleys Wizarding Wheezes Guaranteed Happy Mornings Deodorant (Patent Pending) for his own Muggle brand with the help of a temporary illusion charm. He'd quickly found that it's difficult to be annoyed - or grumpy - when you're being tickled under the arms until you're out of breath from giggling. The talk with Bill last night had probably helped get rid of some lingering resentments, too, even though Harry rather hoped that Bill wouldn't be around today. He was feeling slightly embarrassed about the whole thing, now he'd calmed down and had some sleep.

He reached what he thought must be the door to the drawing room only to have it open almost in his face, apparently by itself, until Harry looked down and saw the ancient house-elf that was shuffling out, muttering under its breath. Harry almost took a step backwards at the sight. He'd thought Dobby was ugly, but this thing was hideous. For one thing, it was naked except for a dirty rag twisted around its hips, the material almost hidden by the folds of loose greyish skin that hung from the small body, as if the creature had suddenly lost half its bodyweight but its skin had stayed the same size. Stained yellow-white hair sprouted from the flapping ears, and its bulbous nose was larger than both bloodshot eyes together. Which, for a house elf, was really saying something.

The elf took no apparent notice of Harry, but the complaints it was muttering were quite loud enough for him to hear.

"- comes back from Azkaban ordering Kreacher around, oh, my poor mistress, what would she say if she saw the house now, scum living in it, her treasures thrown out, she swore he was no son of hers and he's back, they say he's a murderer too -"

Harry's temper rapidly rose as he realised who the thing was talking about, but before he could say or do anything he heard Sirius' roar approaching from inside the drawing room.

"Keep muttering and I _will_ be a murderer, you -" he appeared in the doorway, apparently intending to throw the door closed, until he saw Harry glowering at the house-elf. "Harry! You're up! Come on, everyone's in here." Sirius urged Harry into the drawing room, glaring at Kreacher the entire time, then slammed the door behind them.

Harry's first impression of the drawing room was that it smelt like a combination of burning tyres, rotten onions, and pepper. Before he could even say hello to anyone, he started sneezing uncontrollably. By the third one it felt like his lungs were trying to jump out of his nostrils.

"Oh, sorry, Harry!" he heard Hermione's voice between explosions. "It must be the Doxycide - we should've opened the windows as soon as we finished spraying, but we're all used to it by now I suppose." She rushed from window to window, throwing the casements open, and the peculiar odour was soon replaced by the usual car-exhaust smell of London. Harry lowered his hands cautiously and blinked his violently watering eyes.

"Er, 'mordingk," he mumbled, fishing for a hanky.

"'Afternoon!" came the almost unanimous reply, in varying tones of amusement.

"Whadeber," Harry grumbled resignedly, and blew his nose, before cleaning his glasses on the hem of his shirt. When he'd got them back into place he realised that everyone was staring at him again, just like they had when he'd first arrived. It was bloody irritating - hadn't they ever seen someone sneeze before? Thankfully Hermione at least seemed to realise what she was doing, because she hastily turned to lecture Sirius about how he'd treated Kreacher. She seemed to think that the poor thing just needed a little sympathy, which made Harry snort in disbelief and amusement. Fred and George went back to their muttered conversation, probably discussing Doxy-related matters, and Harry, glad that the weird moment was over, wandered over to join Ron and Ginny near the fireplace. He looked around at the long room as he went, curious because what he'd seen of the house last night had been - well, pretty awful.

This room was no better. The walls seemed to be a sort of armadillo-bile green, from what could be seen between tapestries so filthy that patterns were barely visible. Spindly-legged, breakable-looking furniture was scattered apparently randomly about the room. The upholstery on the chairs and couches would probably have matched the limp, faded green velvet curtains, but all the furniture, and even the carpet, was covered in a thick coat of dust that dulled colours and made the tables look furry. The bucket full of wilted Doxies in front of one of the windows seemed almost pleasant and homelike when compared to the grotesque ornaments dotted about, most of them decorated with snakes or gargoyles or leering death's heads. Harry's gaze travelled past a skull-shaped trinket box on the mantelpiece, absently thinking it looked a bit tacky compared to the rest, but then he took a second, surprised look. It was a real skull, with the top of its head sawn off and hinged. Harry absently wondered whose it had been.

"Well, if it isn't Sleeping Beauty," Ron grinned as he reached them.

"Ah, shut up," Harry retorted good-naturedly. "Morning, Ginny,"

"Hi, Harry," Ginny said a little breathlessly, fiddling with her long, flame-red hair.

Hermione joined them then, grumbling about Sirius' attitude towards Kreacher. "He won't even listen! It isn't his fault he's been stuck in this horrible house for ten years, taking crazy orders from a portrait."

Ron drew himself up. "You just don't understand about house-elves, Hermione," he told her, obviously relishing the fact that he knew more than she did about something, for once. "Anyway, even if he was freed he'd probably go straight to You Know Who - he's nasty enough to do anything, that one."

"That's what Sirius said, but still…"

Harry shook his head and turned away from the arguing pair, and from Ginny, whose staring was making him really uncomfortable again. Sirius had wandered up to the far end of the room and was standing with his hands on his hips, looking over a huge, faded tapestry that covered that entire wall. Harry went to join him and the others followed, Ron and Hermione still arguing.

The tapestry was rather ragged in places, but the golden thread it was embroidered with was still bright enough to let Harry see that it was a family tree. The heading, up near the ceiling, read

_The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black_

'_Toujours pur'_

He immediately looked for Sirius' name, but - "You're not on here!" he said, surprised.

Sirius crouched and pointed to a small scorch-mark on the fabric. "I used to be," he said wryly. He went on to tell Harry about how his mother had blasted his name off the tapestry after he'd run away from home, sick of his parents' pureblood ideals. Harry's own grandparents had taken Sirius in. Harry liked learning that; it somehow seemed to make Sirius more like family. The fact that Sirius had hated his own family and wanted to run away gave him a warm sense of fellow-feeling, too. An even bigger surprise was that Sirius' younger brother had been a Death Eater, and that he'd been killed by Voldemort for trying to swap sides.

Mrs Weasley came in with a tray of food then, but Harry and Sirius were too absorbed in the tapestry to join the others for lunch. Sirius' family history was more interesting than Harry would have thought, especially the revelation that Sirius was related to the Malfoys and the LeStranges, as well as to Tonks, the friendly young Auror with the cool Metamorphmagus abilities who he'd met last night. It was weird, Harry thought, how people from the same family could be so different. Sirius' brother, Tonks' aunts … even his own family, come to that. At least, he couldn't imagine that his mum could ever have been anything like Aunt Petunia. They must have been about as different as two sisters could be.

* * *

It took them three whole days to finish cleaning the upstairs drawing room, and it would have taken twice as long if Sirius hadn't been so determined to throw out as many things as possible. As Hermione said to Ron and Harry one evening, it was as if by getting rid of family heirlooms he was also getting rid of every last trace of his hated family. Mrs Weasley, though obviously dismayed by the waste, mostly left Sirius to get on with it. She did confiscate the skull for 'a proper, decent burial', though, to Ron and the twins' disappointment. The twins and Hermione argued with Sirius more than Mrs Weasley did; all of them thought that some of the more 'interesting' items were worth studying, although their reasons were very different. But Sirius cheerfully ignored all the protests and continued with his scorched-earth assault on the Black family heritage.

That rather suited Harry, really. He wasn't particularly interested in what went into the rubbish bags and what stayed - or what Kreacher nicked for that matter - as long as the work kept his thoughts off the rapidly approaching hearing. His traitorous mind kept turning back to it every moment it wasn't occupied with something else, presenting him with images of his wand being snapped, Fudge's grinning face, crowds of people pointing fingers and wands at him and shouting that he was an attention-seeking liar, Ron and Hermione leaving for Hogwarts without him… His only comforts were that Sirius would be beside him at the trial, even though he'd be disguised (unless Dumbledore wouldn't let him, but surely that couldn't happen); and that if things did go wrong, he might not have to go back to Privet Drive, might be able to stay with Sirius like they'd planned back in third year. He'd be here at Headquarters and maybe able to help with… well, with whatever the Order did when they weren't guarding him. But Sirius had only said 'we'll see', which wasn't very convincing.

As the days alternately dragged and sped by, Harry's depression over the coming trial got worse. Even through his preoccupation Harry knew he wasn't acting like his normal self, and that the others were worried about him, but he couldn't seem to snap out of his bad mood. The nightmares and lack of sleep didn't help much, either.

* * *

The drawing room looked rather bare when they were finished, but at least it was clean, pest-free, and reasonably safe to be in.

"It's still terribly shabby," Mrs Weasley sighed as they paused to look at the results of their labour. "I really must see if we can't get hold of some paint. Imagine a nice cream paint with all the dark-stained timber, it would do wonders for this room."

"Mm-hm," Sirius agreed politely, obviously uninterested in the finer points of home decor.

"Oh, well. At least it's clean, and that's what matters most. And now that's done," Mrs Weasley paused for effect and smiled, "I think we can all take the rest of the afternoon off."

Loud noises of relief greeted the suggestion. As Mrs Weasley bustled out, reminding everyone not to be late for dinner, the kids collapsed onto the delicate-looking furniture. Sirius, though, wandered over to the only remaining tapestry, the one with the Black family tree on it. Both he and Mrs Weasley had tried a vast array of spells to try and get it off the wall, but it had stubbornly stayed put. Even the combined weight of Sirius, Harry, Ron and the twins hanging off it hadn't budged it an inch.

Sirius eyed the tapestry narrowly, then shook back his dark shoulder-length hair and drew his wand, twirling it in a flamboyant gesture. "Well, if we're repainting anyway, a few scorch marks won't matter," he said blithely, and aimed for the tapestry.

"Sirius!" Hermione screeched, jumping up from her chair. "You can't, it's _five hundred years old_, Kreacher said so!"

"So?" Sirius asked carelessly, and took aim again.

"So it's _history_!" She looked around, agitated and pleading for the others to back her up. Harry sighed.

"It isn't that bad," he said tactfully.

"Almost tasteful, really," Ginny piped up. "Compared to the other stuff that was in here, anyway," she added under her breath. Harry shot her a grin, then wished he hadn't, because she blushed.

"Anyway," he added, thinking rapidly as he turned back to Sirius, "if you don't want it, Tonks might. She's part Black too."

"I can research more spells to get it off the wall," Hermione chimed in quickly.

Sirius reluctantly lowered his wand. "Oh, all right," he grumbled, "I suppose Molly wouldn't thank me for making a mess in here just when we've finished cleaning, anyway." He shrugged and wandered out the door with a careless wave. Hermione followed on his heels, and the twins, who had been discussing something in low tones - Harry had caught the words 'purple pustules' and 'expanding earwax' before deciding he didn't want to know - left soon after, but Hermione returned carrying a stack of dusty books, presumably from the library downstairs. She dropped them on the coffee table and curled up in a chair with the topmost one, presumably looking for unsticking charms. Harry silently wished her luck, hoping she'd find one good enough to blast that old bag of a portrait off the wall downstairs. He and the others talked Quidditch until Mrs Weasley called Ginny down to help with dinner, and Ron followed her hoping for a pre-meal snack.

Harry was content to slouch on the sofa with his feet up on the coffee table, and watch the sky through the open windows. Between the housecleaning and the nightmares and worry about the upcoming hearing, he was always tired now. He glanced over at Hermione to see how far she'd got, but she wasn't reading. She was staring at him - well, at his chest, to be precise - with an odd, unfocused expression on her face, absently twisting a strand of curly brown hair around her fingers.

He rolled his eyes and looked away, trying to ignore her. It was really unnerving, all this staring - first the Order at Privet Drive, then Hermione and the Weasleys when he arrived, and even now, four days later, he'd still occasionally catch people looking at him as if he'd done something surprising and not quite normal. Ginny was the worst, but then she'd always been a bit weird around him anyway. Hermione and Fred were nearly as bad, though. Harry glanced at Hermione again, wishing she'd snap out of it, but she just kept gazing at him almost dreamily.

Finally he had enough.

"What?!" he snapped abruptly, as he looked over for about the twelfth time to find Hermione's eyes on him yet again.

Hermione jumped and gave a squeak of surprise, then flushed bright red, staring at him with her eyes wide in shock. A second later she gasped a hasty 'Sorry!' and ducked behind her book, holding it so close to her face that Harry wondered how she could read it. Then he realised that the book was upside-down.

"Hermione!" he said, exasperated.

"Mm?" came her muffled voice from behind the book. He took a deep breath, forcing his temper back down. It was something he seemed to do a lot these days.

"Could you put that book down and tell me what's going on? Please," he added, his jaw tight.

"W- what do you mean?" she asked uncertainly, lowering the book a little.

"You were staring at me," Harry explained as patiently as he could. "Just like everyone else has been since I arrived. What is it - is my face turning green or something?"

Hermione's gave him a startled, considering look, the blush receding a little. Then she carefully closed her book and folded her hands over it in her lap.

"Harry," she asked cautiously, looking him right in the eyes, "have you looked in a mirror lately?"

_What?_ Harry thought incredulously. Then he wondered if maybe his face _was_ turning green or something, just never when he was looking at it.

"Of course I have," he answered, defensive. "I never noticed anything wrong."

Hermione laughed nervously. "No, of course not. Ah, Harry…" She paused, obviously trying to think how she could break the bad news. "Um. Well. I suppose people tend to look at you more because, well, you've changed an awful lot since we last saw you."

Harry knitted his brows. He wished she'd just tell him. "I've had a growth spurt, I know," he said impatiently. "But there's nothing unusual about that - Ron's shot up about six inches."

"Yes, but that's only part of it," Hermione explained, her voice more hesistant than it usually was when she was explaining something. "I really can't understand how you haven't see it for yourself, it's-"

"Hermio-neee," Harry almost whined. He was really getting nervous now.

"Oh, all _right_." She leaned forward a little and said bluntly, "Frankly, Harry - and please don't take this the wrong way - you're gorgeous."

"I'm what?" Harry was sure he couldn't have heard that right.

"You're hot, Harry," Hermione said patiently, despite the faint blush returning to her cheeks. "Not that you weren't good-looking before," she added hastily, "but now… well, it's no wonder that most people look at you twice."

"But…" Harry could think of absolutely nothing to say. He was… hot? But surely he would have noticed _that_? Then he thought of something else.

"What do you mean, 'don't take it the wrong way'?" he asked curiously.

Hermione started fidgeting with her book. "Um. Well, you see, usually when a girl tells a boy he's hot, it's because she, well, likes him. As in _likes_ him likes, him - and I don't!" she added hastily, obviously flustered now. Her words started tumbling over each other. "And I didn't want you getting the idea that I did, like you that is, because that really isn't how - well, I mean, of course I _like_ you, but just not like _that_. I can't help _looking_, sometimes, but you're my _friend_, and -"

"It's okay, Hermione!" Harry interrupted hastily, blushing almost as hard as she was. He hadn't even thought of her comment that way - he'd never really thought of Hermione that way. Well, except for the end of third year when he'd had a bit of a crush on her after their adventure rescuing Sirius and Buckbeak. But that was a long time ago, and it had faded very quickly. As soon as she'd taken it into her head to lecture him about something, in fact.

"Oh. Well, as long as you don't think-"

"I don't!"

"Oh. Um, good."

The next few minutes were spent carefully looking anywhere but at each other.

* * *

Once Hermione was absorbed in her book (holding it the right way up this time) Harry made an excuse and slipped out, heading for the nearest bathroom. He locked the door, then leaned on the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. Try as he might to see what Hermione, and apparently the others saw, he could only see himself. Oh, he was decent-looking, maybe a bit more grown up than he used to be - his facial structure had started to emerge from the roundness of childhood, for one - but it wasn't like he'd ever spent much time looking at his reflection, so he couldn't really tell what had changed. Not that he thought much had, really, whatever Hermione said. Same green eyes, although the glasses were a bit different. He'd had to get new ones this summer despite all the Dursleys grumblings, because his old glasses started giving him headaches and he kept tripping over things. And no wonder, the oculist had said, because the last prescription had been bollixed up. The frames as well as the lenses of the new glasses were thinner, and his eyes weren't hidden as much. Maybe that was what everyone was seeing, though he didn't think it could make that much of a difference. There was nothing special about his eyes. Well, there was to him, because they were just like his mother's; the only thing about him that he was sure came from her.

His nose was all right, he supposed, turning to the side to examine it; not too big, not too small, and with no bumps in odd places. His lips… actually, he rather like the shape of his lips, full without being pouty, firm rather than fleshy. His chin was fairly good, too, square and strong-looking, but not too heavy. His hair was definitely the same as always. Worse, if anything. Maybe if he grew it long, like Bill's, it'd lie down a bit…

Mirror-Harry's lips quirked up as Harry realised he'd been analysing his features for at least five minutes. Merlin, he'd never hear the end of it if the blokes in the dorm ever caught him mooning over himself like this! If he wasn't careful he'd turn into as big a ponce as Malfoy. Harry squinted at his skin in the mirror, looking for pimples - he'd been pretty lucky with them so far - then rubbed his fingertips along his jaw-line hoping to find some sign of facial hair. Not even a bit of fluff. He made a face at his reflection, and whimsically poked his tongue out at it. It was sort of nice to think that he might be growing up good-looking, but really, it wasn't worth getting worked up about. There were much more important things happening. He just wished he could be a bigger part of them.

It wasn't until much later that he thought to wonder just exactly what Hermione had been thinking about him to make her so dreamy-eyed - and make her blush so hard.

* * *

When they'd finished with the upstairs drawing room, Harry and the others were set to cleaning the dining room underneath it, because as big as the kitchen was it could get very cramped at mealtimes. Members of the Order were always coming and going, and they often stayed for one of Mrs Weasley's home-cooked dinners. The dining room didn't take nearly as long as the parlour, and they soon moved on to the drawing room next to it, and then the spare bedrooms. It was about that time that Remus returned from one of his mysterious missions, and turned out to be a great help with some of the stranger cursed objects, like the homicidal grandfather clock on the third floor landing. Occasionally one of the other Order members had a few hours to spare and gave them a hand as well. Tonks, the pink-haired Metamorphmagus, was there the afternoon that they tackled the back bedroom on the top floor, the one next to Sirius' mother's old room, now inhabited by Buckbeak. The Auror was the first to react when Hermione - who had slipped out a minute before - shrieked loudly enough to rattle the windows and set Mrs Black clamouring four stories below. Harry and Ron stared at each other for a second in shock, but Tonks' trained reflexes got her out the door first, Sirius right behind her. Harry bolted after them, frantically wondering what on earth could make Hermione scream like that. He and Ron collided with Fred and George in the hallway, and the four boys managed to untangle themselves just in time to see Tonks catch Hermione as she almost fell out of the door of the fourth floor bathroom.

"Oh, sorry," she said, obviously rattled, but already recovering, and a bit embarrassed at being the centre of attention. "I didn't mean to scream, but there's something in there."

Fred and George immediately whipped out their wands and advanced on the bathroom door, but Sirius called them back.

"Hang on, I get first look," he ordered, and the twins grumbled but obeyed. They still edged sideways, though, trying to peer around the door. Harry did the same, but all he saw was a grimy pink-and-white sink with verdigrised taps and funny mushroom-coloured tiles.

"Are you sure?" Tonks asked Sirius as she helped Hermione to her feet. "I could go in if you like - I've got the training for it, after all."

"Are you kidding?" Sirius grinned. "And give up the only bit of excitement I've had this year? But tell you what, you can back me up," he added gallantly.

Once Hermione was steady they both moved cautiously towards the bathroom, wands ready, and slowly poked their heads and wand-hands around the door frame. Harry was vaguely aware of Hermione talking to Ginny, who had just appeared, and of Mrs Weasley puffing up the last flight of stairs behind him, but most his attention was fixed on Sirius and Tonks, half-expecting something to leap on them from behind the door.

"I can't see anything," Sirius said quietly. "Where was it, Hermione, and what did it look like?"

"Behind the shower curtain," she called softly. "It was big - bigger than me, from what I saw of it, and it looked - well, like a very dead person." Ginny clutched Hermione's arm.

"A dead person?" Ron asked, fidgeting nervously.

"I wouldn't put it past my ancestors," Sirius offered cheerfully from the bathroom door, _soto voce_. "But it's probably just a boggart."

"I don't know," Tonks murmered doubtfully. "Even with the shower curtain, I think it's too open in here for a boggart."

"True," Sirius admitted. "Well, we can easily find out. _Wingardium_ _leviosa_!"

Harry saw the edge of the shower curtain fly up past the doorframe as Tonks jumped back, catlike, away from the sudden movement. Her exclaimation and the flapping of the curtain were almost drowned out by a rattling noise and a long, agonised howl that sounded like the last lament of a dying soul.

Sirius promptly burst out laughing.

"It's just a ghoul!" he called out, still chuckling as he and Tonks emerged from the bathroom, Tonks looking a bit tight-lipped.

"Oh is that all?" Hermione exclaimed, both relieved and interested. "I've read about them; they're rather like poltergeists, aren't they?"

"Yes, but not nearly as bothersome, thank goodness," Mrs Weasley said from behind them, with a mixture of relief and irritation. She pulled _Gilderoy Lockhart's Guide to Household Pests _from the capacious front pocket of her apron and started flicking through it, muttering under her breath. "I really don't know what this house will come up with next, every room has something living in it, if it isn't rats it's ghouls, and if it isn't ghouls it's Doxies, and if it isn't Doxies it's hippogriffs in the main bedroom…" Sirius, Harry and Hermione exchanged a guilty look. "Ghouls, ghouls… I've never bothered with old Horace at home, the clanking used to help lull the boys to sleep, but he's in the attic, and this one obviously can't stay here… "

"Don't worry, Molly," Tonks said helpfully. "I think I can remember what my mum did to get rid of one once." She disappeared back into the bathroom, calling over her shoulder, "It should be easy as - whoops!" The young Auror skidded on the mildewed bathmat and tumbled heels over head with a startled oath. Harry and the others rushed to the bathroom door in time to see her crash-land in the bath, knocking one of the taps off as she went. The ghoul shrieked and tried to climb the shower curtain, which promptly tore loose and fell on top of it along with the curtain rail and a cloud of plaster dust; water sprayed everywhere, and Mrs Weasley dropped her book and screamed almost louder than the ghoul.

"Oh my Heavens! Tonks, dear, are you all right?"

She rushed forward. Harry could hear laughter behind him - Tonks' clumsiness was legendary, and according to the twins, hilarious. Looking at the mess, he was tempted to join in, but then he realised that Tonks, despite being soaked in icy water, hadn't yet moved. He quickly followed Mrs Weasley, shielding his eyes from the spray, unsure what he could do but wanting to be there in case. Behind him, Sirius pushed through the crowd, aimed his wand at the tap and cried, "_Glacio_!" The gushing water immediately froze into icicles.

"Oh, thank you, Sirius," Mrs Weasley said distractedly. "The poor girl's knocked herself out; I knew it would happen one of these days." Her wand was flitting over Tonks' body in a way Harry recognised from the school infirmary.

"Can I do anything?" he asked quietly.

"Oh, thank you, Harry dear, but we can manage. Ginny!" The red-haired girl materialised at Harry's side. "Run and turn down one of the spare room beds, will you dear, and get one of my nighties. Good girl," as Ginny vanished again. "Fred, hot water bottles, please; and George, the medicine chest." Both disappeared with a pop. Mrs Weasley fired off a series of drying spells at the limp-looking Metamorphmagus, then carefully levitated her out of the bathroom as Harry stood back, feeling rather helpless. He followed them to where the others stood, lining the hallway like a guard of honour at a funeral, and watched as they disappeared down the stairwell.

After several seconds of subdued silence, Hermione sighed.

"Well, I suppose we should do something about this ghoul," she said unenthusiastically.

* * *

Twenty minutes later a largish shower-curtain-covered shape was still scampering around the bathroom floor, whimpering and clanking as it went, but evading Sirius' spells with ease. Everything, even stunning spells, seemed to slide right off it, and Sirius' temper was noticeably frayed by the time the twins returned.

"Is Tonks all right?" everyone asked at once.

"Yeah," Fred said. "She woke up almost right away. Told Mum it was nothing -"

"- and that she wouldn't know herself if she didn't knock herself out at least once a month. You look happy, Sirius," George grinned.

Sirius gave him a half-amused scowl. "You two can have a shot at the slippery little bastard if you like. All one person can do is give it some exercise." He flourished a hand at the quivering shower curtain as if inviting them to have at it.

"Professor Lockhart's book says that they're immune to most charms and hexes," Hermione explained to the newcomers. "No-one's ever bothered to find new ones, as ghouls rarely bother people - they usually live in dark, dank spaces, where they're actually quite useful because they scare off mice. But the book says that if one person holds it down with the Configo charm, a second can use a _Spiritus ligatio_ on it."

"I've heard of the Configo -"

"- it's a sort of a stronger Immobulus, right?" George interjected,

" -but what's this spiritual ligation?" Fred finished.

"You can't cast a Configo?" Sirius asked incredulously, staring at the twins. "Aren't you in seventh year this year?"

George snorted, unabashed. "Fair go, have you seen what passes for a Defence teacher at Hogwarts these days? It's a wonder we know _Expelliarmus_."

Sirius' lips tightened. "Looks like I'll have to teach you, then. It'll take some practice, though; the wand movement can be a bit tricky."

Thee was a pause. Harry wondered if he should say something, but Hermione beat him to it.

"Sirius, I don't suppose that the wards hiding the house would mask underage magic?" she asked intently.

"No, why? Can you cast a Configo?"

"Well, yes," Hermione said, glancing apologetically at the twins. "Ron and Harry can too. We learned last year, when Harry was practicing for the Tri-Wizard Tournament. Not that it's much help now," she sighed.

Sirius grinned, suddenly cheerful again. "Not if you use your own wands, no. We don't need the Ministry trying to figure out where the alarm's coming from. But," he winked mischievously, "as you lot apparently haven't figured it out by now, let me tell you a secret. The alarm spell that the Ministry uses isn't _really_ triggered when an underage wizard uses magic." Hermione started to protest, but Sirius held up his hand to stop her. " It's triggered when the _wand_ registered to an under-aged wizard is used. As long as you're outside a shielded area like Hogwarts, anyway. So…"

"If we use an adult's wand, it won't be detected!" Hermione exclaimed, elated.

"Right!" Sirius grinned. "Just don't let Molly hear about it, she's worse than the Ministry."

Ron suddenly rounded on the twins, who were looking smug. "You could have _told_ me," he said accusingly.

Fred shrugged. "Hey, we never knew how the Trace worked either until we turned 17 and Dad showed us how to get rid of it."

"Anyway, we can't go telling you little kids big adult secrets." George added with an air of superiority. "S'against the rules."

"I'll show you who's little! And since when did you follow the rules?" Ron cried indignantly.

"All right, settle down, you know now," Sirius said impatiently. "Just ferchrissakes don't get caught at it." He turned to the twins. "So, would you mind them using your wands?"

The twins looked at each other and shrugged.

"Break them and we break your legs," they informed the younger kids in unison, with a sunny smile.

"It'll be a bit awkward, of course, using a different wand," Sirius told Harry, Ron and Hermione. He turned to the twins again. "What are your wands made of?"

"Larch with a unicorn hair core, 8 ½ inches," they replied.

"Should've known," Sirius grinned. "So which of you three would that be a better match to?"

"Ron," Hermione said promptly. "His wand's willow and unicorn hair. Go on Ron, try something."

Ron gingerly took George's proffered wand and gave it a half-hearted swish, carefully aiming away from the group crowding the hall. A few sickly yellow coloured sparks emerged and floated briefly before they popped like bubbles, leaving behind a smell that was vaguely reminiscent of rotten egg gas.

"You'll do. Ron it is then," Sirius said cheerfully, clapping him on the back. Ron didn't look quite so happy.

"But can't two of us go?" Harry asked.

Sirius shook his head. "Too many cooks and all that. We'd just fall over each other. Come on Ron." Ron followed him to the bathroom, his lips clamped firmly together.

"Go on, Ronniekins, show us what you're made of," George cheered him on.

"Yeah, Ron, give it what for. And if you don't come out alive -"

"- we'll be sure to tell Hermione - "

"- that you always loved her," Fred finished melodramatically. George wiped imaginary tears from his eyes as Fred hid his face in his brother's shoulder and sniffed loudly.

Ron went scarlet. "Bloody hell, you two!"

Hermione, slightly pink around the ears, swatted Fred and George. Harry gave his best friend a bracing grin as Sirius shut the door to the strains of the twins warbling, "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know whee-e-en…"

The next ten minutes - after the twins finally shut up - were spent leaning against the walls of the hallway, listening apprehensively to a series of muffled thumps, bangs, clanks, shouted spells, howls, and swearing. At one point, a loud crow of triumph from Ron was cut off by a frustrated yell from Sirius as the ghoul obviously got away yet again. The bathroom door quivered several times, as if something was trying to get out, making those outside jump. Then there was silence. The four in the hallway looked at each other questioningly.

Just as Harry was about to call out and ask if everything was all right, the door opened. What looked like a firmly trussed rotting body floated out, chains dragging on the floor behind it. Ron and Sirius followed, looking sweaty and dishevelled.

"Cool," the twins breathed as one, staring at the apparent corpse floating past them.

"Can we have it?" George asked Sirius hopefully. "We could take it home to Horace - "

"- and maybe they'll mate and we'll have ickle baby ghoulies!" Fred finished with glee.

Sirius eyed them tiredly. "Thanks, but no thanks. It can go up in the attic. If Hermione's right and it scares away mice, at least then your mother won't be complaining about _those_."

* * *

Harry had been thinking, while he'd been waiting in the hallway for Ron to finish battling the ghoul - a situation which had felt all wrong, come to think of it. Usually he was the one doing things while Ron waited. He shook off the vague thought that maybe he'd been arrogant again.

"Sirius," he asked quietly as they all trooped down from the attic for a well-earned drink, "If the Ministry trace is on the wand… the summer before second year, a house elf showed up at my Aunt and Uncle's place and dropped a cream pudding on someone's head, and the ministry sent me a warning for breaking the Underage Magic laws. But I wasn't anywhere near my wand at the time. How does that work?"

Sirius stopped in the middle of the hallway and gaped at Harry.

"A house elf dropped a - _what_ the - ?!"

"Long story," Harry said briefly. "I'll tell you later."

"Ri-ight." Sirius looked at him oddly, but started moving again. "I don't know about that. Maybe you could ask Arthur, or Tonks. Or Remus might know. Just don't tell them I was the one who let you in on how the system works, okay?"

Harry grinned. "Okay."

* * *

Remus turned up just as dinner was starting - he'd been away on one of his mysterious missions for the last few days - and they all tucked into home-fried fish and chips. Tonks, though well enough to come downstairs, had been restricted by Mrs Weasley to soup and salad and just a small piece of unbattered fish. She kept nicking chips off other people's plates when Mrs Weasley wasn't looking, though. Remus, who was sitting next to her, seemed not to notice anything odd about her choice of meal until Fred and George started teasing her about her 'acrobatics' that afternoon.

"Are you quite all right, Nymphadora?" he asked earnestly, after he'd quieted the twins. Tonks went pink.

"Never better," she said brightly, making a dismissive gesture that nearly knocked over the vinegar. "Molly worries too much - I'm used to this sort of thing. All in a day's work."

Mrs Weasley returned to the table with a fresh jug of butterbeer. "A knock like that is nothing to fool about with, young lady," she said firmly, pointing a stern finger at Tonks. "You'll be staying here tonight where I can keep an eye on you. It's either that, or I'll be having a word with your mother."

The young Auror subsided, her cheeks flaming brighter than her hair. Remus gave her a reassuring smile and helped himself to more chips, surreptitiously dropping some on her plate when Mrs Weasley's back was turned. Tonks gave him a weak smile in thanks.

Harry decided that this was probably a good time to provide a distraction. "Professor Lupin, I've been wondering about something. I know about the Trace on underage wizards' wands, but I once got a warning for using underage magic when I wasn't even the one _doing_ the magic, and it wasn't with a wand, either. So I wondered…"

"How they picked it up?" Lupin finished, and Harry nodded. Lupin wiped his mouth with his napkin and leaned back, collecting his thoughts. "As I understand it," he said thoughtfully, "the Improper Use of Magic Office mostly relies on the Trace, you're quite right there. However there are some - special cases," he shot a wry look at Harry, who made a face, "especially those who have shown an aptitude for wandless magic, whom they feel require closer observation. So they place small sensors in the area around their homes, sensors that pick up any magic over a certain level, to make sure that no potential problems go unnoticed. They're mostly used in muggle areas, of course, as in wizarding homes the parents are expected to prevent their children from breaking the laws, whether accidentally or on purpose."

Tonks had been listening. "You'd probably have rated a sensor net anyway," she offered, "just because you're, well, you. But you must be pretty strong, wandless. I remember when you blew your aunt up - the whole Ministry was talking about that for ages!" She grinned conspiratorially, but Harry couldn't bring himself to smile back.

"So they're spying on me," he said slowly, feeling rebellious. How many people were there watching him, for crying out loud?

"Not just you," Remus pointed out gently. "And the sensors only pick up magic, nothing else."

"There's a sensor net over the whole of Britain, actually," Tonks added. "But it only picks up on really big outbursts of magic, because it's such a huge area."

But that's awful!" Hermione joined in from the other side of Ron, putting down her cutlery sharply. "That's like - like Big Brother!" Ron, who was listening as well, shot her a confused look.

Tonks shrugged and stole another chip. "How else would we know when there's a disturbance, early enough to hide it from the Muggles, anyway? And who's Big Brother?"

Remus leaned forward, catching Hermione's eye. "The sensor net isn't there to keep watch on ordinary law-abiding witches and wizards, you realise. It's there for our protection. It is inconvenient at times, especially when one has to get a permit for something that might otherwise bring the Obliviators running, but if we didn't have it; if there was no way of knowing when something had gone wrong - if the Death Eaters attacked in force, for example… Think of it like Muggle gun laws, if that helps. If everyone could be trusted to use guns sensibly, there wouldn't be any need for laws. As it is…" He shrugged.

"And wands are just as dangerous as guns," Hermione said softly.

"More so. Much more so," Remus corrected her gently.

"I still don't like it," she said defiantly, and Harry silently agreed with her.

Remus sighed wearily. "No-one likes being subject to regulation," he said, looking down at his plate. "But people have been arguing about the balance of safety and freedom in various societies for millennia, and so far nobody, not even the greatest of philosophers, wizarding or muggle, has found a practical solution that pleases everyone. It's one of those questions that, unfortunately, can never have a truly satisfactory answer." He picked up his knife and fork as if declaring the conversation over.

Their end of the table was rather silent for the rest of the meal.

* * *

The talk picked up over dessert, but Harry couldn't bring himself to join in much. The conversation about underage magic had reminded him of the hearing still hanging over his head, and the doubt hanging over his future. He ate his ice-cream slowly, but when he saw Sirius slip out he quickly scraped up the last spoonfuls and followed. He'd got as far as the stairs to the first floor when he realised Sirius had only gone up to the lav, so he sat down and waited. It wasn't long before he heard the pipes grumbling and the bathroom door opening, then footsteps trampled down the stairs, and Sirius sat down beside him.

"Did they kick you out?" Sirius asked cheerfully. "Or is this where I get to hear the one about the house elf and the cream pudding?"

"Er, neither," Harry smiled weakly. "Actually, I wanted to ask you if you'd heard from Dumbledore. About coming with me to - to the Ministry." He said it casually, determined to seem nonchalant.

Sirius immediately sobered. "No, I haven't," he admitted.

"Oh," Harry said.

There was quiet for a minute, and then a long arm curled around Harry's shoulders. He flinched reflexively and went stiff, and the arm dropped away.

"Sorry," Sirius said awkwardly.

"No! I mean, it's not your fault," Harry stammered. "Just me being stupid."

"Not used to being hugged much?" Sirius asked grimly. It was true, but Harry thought it would be pretty pathetic to admit it, so he didn't answer. Instead, he plucked up his courage and asked,

"So have you thought about whether I can stay here? If - well, you know."

Sirius hesitated. "Dumbledore seems to think you'd be safest at your aunt and uncle's house -"

"Look, if you don't want me here, just say so," Harry said defiantly, starting to get up. He found himself grabbed around the shoulders again, and pulled roughly into Sirius' side.

"Of course I want you with me!" he said, almost angrily. "But I don't want you shut up in this bloody house - God, it's driving me mad, so what would it do to you? I'd take you somewhere else, but Dumbledore keeps saying it isn't safe, so what am I meant to do? Ignore him, and risk your life on him being wrong?"

Harry wrenched away and jumped to his feet. "Don't you get it?" he hissed. "_Anything's_ better than going back to the Dursleys! It's bad enough when it's just for part of the summer hol.s, but if Dumbledore sends me back there now, I'm bloody well running away. I'm old enough to get a job. I could go anywhere, and Voldemort wouldn't have a clue where to start looking!"

Then he realised Sirius was smiling.

"_What_?!" he half-shouted, furious that the man might be laughing at him.

Sirius shook his head. "You remind me of me when I was your age, that's all," he said cheerfully. Harry was caught between anger and confusion. What the hell did that have to do with anything? But Sirius kept talking.

"Don't worry," he said, grinning like a maniac. "You won't be going back to the Dursleys if I have anything to say about it. If you can stand it here, we can stay here, and if you want to run away, hell, I'll come with you and we'll do the thing properly. Ever wanted to see Brazil?"

Harry could only gape at him. Sirius stood, tossing his head to shake back his hair, and put out his hand.

"You're stuck with me, kid," he said easily. "Padfoot and Prongs Junior. Right?"

Harry slowly reached out and shook his hand. "Okay," he managed.

"Brilliant," Sirius laughed, pulling him into a bear-hug. Harry forgot to resist; his mind was too busy repeating two thoughts over and over, two thoughts so big that they almost overwhelmed him.

Sirius really did want him around. And he might never have to go back to the Dursleys again.

* * *

After that, Harry found it much easier to not think about the trial. He was still losing sleep to nightmares - including the strange ones of a long corridor with a locked door at the end - but otherwise he seemed to be doing a fairly good job of being cheerful. Ron and Hermione stopped whispering about him in corners, anyway.

In fact, he did so well at not thinking about it that it was a complete surprise to him when Mrs Weasley said at dinner one night, "I've ironed your best clothes for tomorrow morning, Harry, and I want you to wash your hair tonight, too. A good first impression can work wonders."

Even though she'd spoken quietly everyone had heard, and the conversation at the table abruptly stopped. Harry felt like a brick had just dropped into his stomach instead of the lamb chops and boiled potatoes he'd been eating. He swallowed with difficulty.

"How am I getting there?" he asked, as casually as he could. It was a relief when he heard that he'd be going with Mr Weasley; at least he'd be with someone who knew the Ministry. But did that mean -?

He looked at Sirius questioningly. Sirius grimaced and opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Weasley beat him to it.

"Professor Dumbledore doesn't think it's a good idea for Sirius to go with you, and I must say -"

"- I think he's _quite right_," Sirius finished for her, mockery and resentment lacing his sullen voice. Mrs Weasley clamped her lips together and turned away.

Harry stared. "When did Dumbledore tell you that?" But Sirius wouldn't look at him; he was too busy stabbing irritably at his dinner.

"He came last night, when you were in bed," Mr Weasley replied for him.

Dumbledore had been here? Harry's guts roiled with a chaotic mix of disappointment, confusion and anger. After all that had happened, and with the hearing coming up tomorrow, Dumbledore had been here and hadn't even asked to see him.

To be continued…

* * *

**A/N 1.** Disclaimer. Parts of this chapter (including but not limited to the conversation about Skiving Snackboxes and the joke shop, Kreacher's mutterings, Sirius and Harry's discussion of the Black Family Tree, and the final scene) summarise, paraphrase or quote directly from the early chapters of _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_. Anything you recognise is not mine, and is only included in this fic in order to ground it in canon events.

**A/N 2.** I invented this system for the detection of underage magic before I read DH, but after reading it I decided to borrow the name of 'the Trace' from the new canon.


	4. 3: Trial and Tribulations

**Black Feathers**  
**Chapter 3: Trial and Tribulations**

Hermione did the best she could, but a sneeze will out.

"Keep it down!" came a strangled hiss from somewhere to her left, even as she tried to stifle another.

"It wasn't that loud," she hissed back defensively, as soon as she could. "Anyway, I can't help it, it's all the dust."

A series of faint clatters along with a string of softly spoken curses gave notice that Ron was returning from his latest foray into the cluttered recesses of the vast room. That was her only guide to his location, as the surrounding darkness seemed to swallow the light of their candles - although Hermione was realistic enough to admit that could just be an effect of her overstretched nerves. She actually jumped when Ron appeared around a corner, despite having heard him coming.

"If there's a window over there, I can't see it - it must be covered with something. Now can we go?" Ron whispered impatiently. His eyes darted from side to side, as if he half-expected something to jump out at him at any moment.

Hermione hissed in frustration, wishing not for the first time that she'd thought to bring an electric torch from home. The dim, flickering candlelight only made the shadowy, junk-filled room seem even more menacing, as if… _things_ were lurking in dark corners and under pieces of tattered furniture, waiting impatiently for a moment of carelessness that would snuff out the candles and leave the humans where they wanted them, defenceless in the dark… Hermione shivered convulsively, then immediately scolded herself for indulging in irrational fears. Although, she had to admit, after what they'd found in the house so far such fears might not be terribly irrational.

Something rustled over near the wall, and Hermione jumped again, hoping fervently that it was only a mouse.

"Maybe this wasn't such a good idea," she admitted, glancing nervously around as Ron snorted his agreement.

A morning spent exploring the forbidden territory of the cellars had seemed like a very good idea twenty minutes ago, after Hermione had found herself, for a second time in a fortnight, staring blankly at the pages of an upside-down book because she was immersed in disturbing thoughts about her best friend. Only this time, it wasn't so much about how his worn old T-shirt stretched across his torso, showing the faint outline of boyish muscles - when _had_ he grown those? - and, more clearly, a small, intriguing bump that had to be a nipple -

"Oi! Hermione!"

"_What_, Ron?" she hissed irritably, upset at the interruption. Then she froze. Oh God, had she been thinking out loud?!

"Are we getting out of here, or are you going to stand there and stare at nothing until Harry gets back?" Ron grumbled.

Hermione repressed a sigh of relief. "At least I'm trying to do something useful, instead of pacing around like a deranged lunatic!" she retorted.

"Yeah, right, this is very bloody useful. And keep it down, Mum'll hear you!" Ron hissed back.

Ron was being just a little paranoid, Hermione thought. Mrs. Weasley was probably too preoccupied to hear anything. She'd shooed everyone out of the kitchen right after breakfast and started a marathon baking session, making all of Harry's favourite treats. Hermione had counted four treacle tarts as she and Ron sneaked through to the cellars, as well as a chocolate cake the size of a cartwheel and half a dozen different sorts of biscuits. She'd had to forcibly shove Ron through the cellar doorway once he caught sight of them.

"Anyway," Ron continued resentfully, "You're not here because you're being _useful_. You just want to get this stuff for yourself so Sirius can't throw it out."

Hermione felt her face heating. "Ron Weasley! Are you suggesting that I'd _steal_ from Sirius?"

He looked down, obviously abashed by her tone. "Um, no?" Then he managed to dig himself deeper by saying, "I mean, it's more like rescuing, yeah? He's just going to chuck it all, anyway, so -"

Hermione rounded on him in outrage. "I can't believe you think I could do that! Just because I believe what he's doing is wrong doesn't give me the right to take things. I'm not a thief, Ronald!"

"You stole from Snape once," Ron contested hotly.

"Potions ingredients! When people were being Petrified and we thought we could stop it! That's hardly the same thing." She put her hands on her hips and glared, furious.

Ron scowled. "Yeah, well Sirius is chucking things that might help us against You Know Who, and no-one's saying anything! I mean, think of that carpet that nearly sucked George into it, just like quicksand. Wouldn't it be brilliant if Snape could stick a stasis spell on it and sneak it into Voldemort's headquarters, then just when all the Death Eaters were standing on it…. sluuuurp!" He made an illustrative gesture with his hands.

Hermione gasped in shock, her previous outrage forgotten. "You can't do that!"

Ron shrugged carelessly. "'Course we can. That's _nothing_ compared to what You Know Who's going to do now he's back. Bloody hell, Hermione, don't you know anything about what happened back in the first war? I grew up listening to Bill and Charlie going on and on about awful stuff that happened and how mad they were that they never got a chance to fight the Death Eaters who did it, 'cause the war ended before they were old enough. My uncles _died_ fighting them. You Know Who burned Aunt Agnes _alive_ as a bloody _warning_ to Uncle Fabian to keep his nose out of their business!" He stopped abruptly, chest heaving, then crossed his arms and looked away into the surrounding dimness, shoulders hunched defensively.

Hermione bit her lip. She did know what had happened, of course she did, but… "Sorry," she said hesitantly. "I didn't realise. I mean, I know some of what happened, but… it's different, when you read it in books."

"Yeah, I bet," Ron said sourly, still not looking at her.

"Did you say anything to Sirius? About the things he's throwing away" she asked curiously.

Ron snorted. "Tried. He gave me a lecture about Dark Magic and how he wouldn't trust anything that came out of this place."

Hermione knitted her brows. "Well, he probably has a point."

"Hermione -" Ron started angrily.

"About some things. Not everything, necessarily," she added quickly, not wanting him to start again.

"I still think he's being stupid. And Dad won't say anything to him - just says it's his house and his business," Ron growled.

They stood in silence for a few minutes, listening to the faint bangs and clatters Ron's mum was making in the next room.

"So what are we doing if we're not here to ta- to hide stuff from Sirius?" Ron asked finally.

Hermione shrugged, and started dusting off a fairly innocuous-looking crate with her hand. "I thought we could see what's here, at least. If anything looks interesting - or useful," she added thinking that Ron probably had a point, "then I could do some research, and maybe find some information to convince Sirius it's worth keeping." She sat gingerly on her makeshift perch.

Ron snorted as he carefully inspected a chair with a broken arm, even going so far as to crouch down and peer underneath it. Probably looking for spiders, Hermione thought, with a small, private smile.

"That didn't help with that mung vase thing you liked so much," he said belatedly, as he straightened.

"Ming, not mung." Hermione sighed. "And no, it didn't. But anything's better than just sitting around and waiting for Harry to come back from his hearing."

Ron sat down heavily on the chair, which creaked alarmingly. "Thanks for reminding me," he groaned.

"Oh, as if either of us could really forget," Hermione retorted, nettled.

Ron looked for a moment as if he was about to launch into another tirade, but in the end all he did was shrug. "Yeah."

Hermione regarded him for a moment. Ron's normally cheerful face was sullen, and his long body slumped in the rickety chair. For a second the flickering light warped his features into someone else's, someone grim and adult and a stranger to her. Then he shifted restlessly, the shadows moved, and he was her Ron again. It left Hermione with an eerie feeling, though

"It's going to be okay, really," she said decisively, trying to reassure herself as well as Ron.

"Yeah, right," Ron said morbidly. "All Harry has to do is tell them there were a couple of Dementors wandering around a Muggle street, and he just happened to run into them. If they don't bust a gut laughing at him they'll put him straight in St Mungo's with Lockhart. There hasn't been a Dementor attack since, what -"

"1731," Hermione supplied automatically.

"Yeah, that. And everyone knows they can't leave Azkaban. Hell, even I didn't believe what'd happened when we first heard about it."

Hermione was almost tempted to say something about Ron's track record in believing Harry, but wisely decided not to. "The Order will do something," she said firmly, instead. "Professor Dumbledore won't let Harry be expelled."

"Like anyone's listening to _him_ these days," Ron muttered.

Hermione gritted her teeth. "Harry is _not_ going to be expelled," she stated stubbornly. "If this hearing goes badly, then we'll appeal for another one, and demand they let him testify under Veritaserum if necessary, about the Dementors _and_ about You Know Who. We'll kidnap that horrible cousin of his for a witness, if we have to! Harry _is_ innocent, and that _has_ to come out sooner or later."

Ron grunted. "Tell that to Sirius."

Hermione exclaimed in frustration. "_Must_ you be such a defeatist? Anyone would think you'd given up on Harry already!"

"I'm just being realistic," Ron defended sullenly, not looking at her.

"Well it _isn't helping_," she said between her teeth.

"Neither is this!" he retorted loudly, surging to his feet and gesturing broadly at their surrounds. "Even if we don't get ourselves killed by a - a Dark hatstand or something, Sirius isn't going to listen to anything _we_ have to say. You can stay here if you want - at least then I'll have some peace." He grabbed his candlestick and stomped down the narrow aisle to the doorway.

Hermione slumped on her crate. She supposed she should follow Ron - it wasn't safe to be in the cellars on her own - but at the moment she didn't really want his company, even just to the top of the stairs. He could be so infuriating! Some days she really didn't know what she saw in him.

He did have a point, though, she had to admit, about using Dark artifacts against the Death Eaters. She didn't like it, but she couldn't avoid recognising the practicality of it. Of course, Ron would pick one of the nastier examples. Hermione sniffed in disgust. Boys were strange; they seemed to actually enjoy thinking and talking and reading about blood and gore and violent death. About the only History of Magic classes Ron ever stayed awake for were those covering particularly horrid battles. And the books he read - when he did actually read, Hermione added sarcastically to herself - were even worse; usually featuring a musclebound wizard who killed the bad guys, saved the world, got the girl and rode off into the sunset on his trusty broom. Combine that juvenile tendency with what the Death Eaters had done to his family - Hermione felt a pang of sympathy; she hadn't known about his Aunt before - and she supposed that it was perfectly natural that he'd pick the nastiest possible way to get the better of the Death Eaters.

But that didn't make it _right_, Hermione decided fiercely, as she propped her chin on her hands, staring at nothing in particular. If the Order started killing Death Eaters willy-nilly that would make them almost as bad as the Death Eaters themselves. The right thing to do was to bring them to trial, to make sure they got exactly what they deserved. She frowned. Of course, something would have to be done about the Ministry first, because the current one didn't seem to know what the word 'justice' meant.

And that reminded her of Harry, and the utter unfairness of his situation made her furious all over again.

She jumped to her feet, stubbornly pushing those thoughts away. There was absolutely no sense in sitting in the dark and worrying about something she couldn't do anything about right now. Instead she'd do something useful, like going to the library - a cramped, dusty room at the back of the house that only she and Remus ever seemed to enter - and researching Dark Artifacts. There had to be a good reason why people like Sirius were so opposed to their use, even when they might be helpful. And if there wasn't, if by chance Sirius was wrong and it was just superstition that kept people from using the Dark Arts, then she would _really_ be helping the Order by finding that out.

Hermione hurried to the cellar door, her mind already turning over all she'd ever learned about the Dark Arts. It was really quite ridiculous that they weren't taught more about the subject at Hogwarts - not even told what _made_ something Dark Arts! Instead the topic was avoided as if the very mention of it would contaminate their minds. Hermione sniffed at that. She abhorred censorship. Learning never hurt anyone, as long as they didn't put their knowledge to the wrong uses.

As she crept past the kitchen door and an oblivious Mrs. Weasley, a thrill of excitement was curling through her at the thought of new knowledge, especially forbidden knowledge, and the possibility of making a discovery everyone else had overlooked. And if Dark articles could be used safely, then Sirius would _have_ to stop throwing away everything that wasn't nailed down, perfectly harmless Ming vases included. That music box that had nearly sent everyone to sleep could be a very useful weapon, she reflected, _and_ it would leave the Death Eaters alive to face trial. _Much_ better than a carnivorous carpet. So there, Ronald Weasley!

* * *

Harry was relieved when the Wizengamot finally finished questioning him. The worst part of the trial was over, everything was going well, and as soon as Dumbledore had come and said his piece he'd be able to go - well, it wasn't home. Although it sort of was, because Sirius was there, and Sirius was the closest thing he had to real family. Harry thought about the conversation he'd had with his godfather last night as he watched the doors, not really listening to the Wizengamot arguing over what he'd told them. It was… odd, to feel like he almost belonged to someone; a strange squishy feeling in his stomach. He'd never felt that with the Dursleys; they'd been too quick to distance themselves from him at every opportunity, making it clear that he was a barely-tolerated outsider. He'd returned the favour once he grew up enough to realise they didn't want him. Belonging was new feeling, but a very good one - warm and tentative and hopeful.

The sudden boom of the gavel made Harry jump in his seat, and as the sound echoed around the courtroom he turned to face the Wizengamot, wondering what had just happened. Had they decided to let him go without waiting for Dumbledore? Madam Bones was glaring at him, Fudge smiling broadly over her shoulder and rubbing his hands together. Percy was beside the chain-decked chair they'd made Harry sit in, with his hand held out, sneering at Harry's obvious confusion.

"What…?" Harry stammered, bewildered.

"Your wand, Mr. Potter," Amelia Bones said in the voice of someone forced to repeat herself once too often.

Harry hesitated about giving his wand up, and to Percy of all people, but as the Wizengamot rumbled impatiently he finally handed it over. Presumably they wanted to test it for something, but he wasn't worried; he'd done nothing wrong, and Dumbledore would be here any minute to tell them that.

Percy handed Harry's wand to Fudge, who tested it between his hands then held it up at arms length. "Harry Potter," he said, in his precise, fussy voice, "Your wand has been broken." Even as he spoke, he matched actions to words and ceremoniously brought the eleven inches of holly and phoenix feather down over his raised knee, snapping it cleanly in two. A few feeble sparks rose from the broken ends as Harry gaped, disbelieving. This wasn't what was supposed to happen! Dumbledore was supposed to stop it! His wand couldn't be broken, couldn't be…!

The pieces were tossed to the ground in front of his chair as if to prove otherwise, and Fudge continued, an undercurrent of triumph in his prissy voice. "You are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. You are no longer permitted to own or use a wand or any magical object. You are not permitted to perform magic of any kind whatsoever, on pain of prosecution and Obliviation. Let it be known to all that Harry Potter, son of James and Lily Potter," Fudge paused for effect, "is no longer a wizard."

Fudge's last, impossible sentence echoed in Harry's head even as the audience burst into enthusiastic applause. Harry hadn't really noticed them before, but now he turned, dazed, to see the malicious faces of Rita Skeeter, Lucius Malfoy, Argus Filch, Professor Snape and what seemed to be most of the Slytherins cheering as they avidly watched his life come apart at the seams.

"Furthermore," Fudge continued, "Mr. Potter is to be banished from the magical world for the term of his natural life. An extremely suitable sentence, as he has shown repeatedly that he was never truly fit to be a wizard."

"Hear, hear," came the cry from all around, as Harry looked desperately for someone - anyone - who might help him. He tried to stand, to protest, but the chains draping his chair pre-empted him, slithering into place and locking themselves around his arms and legs. He tugged at them ineffectually, tried to shout at Fudge that it wasn't fair, that he hadn't done anything wrong - only to find that he couldn't make a sound.

"Well, I think we've wasted enough time with this," Madam Bones said curtly as she closed the folder in front of her. "Get him out of here."

Harry strained desperately towards the doors where, surely, any minute now, Dumbledore would appear and tell them it was all a mistake. The doors swung open as if in response, and Harry started to slump in relief, but instead of the kindly visage of Albus Dumbledore what appeared around the door was a skeletal form clad in a ragged robe that floated in an invisible breeze, its face hidden under a deep hood. Another lurked behind it in the corridor

Harry gasped, but none of the Wizengamot seemed to find the appearance of Dementors at all disturbing. They chatted with each other, ignoring Harry's increasingly desperate struggles and the silent pleas which turned into shameful, voiceless screams as the Dementor approached, screams that echoed inside his head and rose in pitch until they were his mother's screams as she pleaded and begged and died. His vision started to dim, then the inescapable green flash of the killing curse brought both surcease and darkness as black as a Dementor's rotted cloak.

He didn't know how much time passed before the shadows receded, but Harry woke to find that he was moving, floating upright between the two Dementors as they travelled along a bare, utilitarian corridor; floating just as they did, as if swept along by an invisible wind, the chains still draping his wrists and ankles moving in the breeze like his escorts' robes. For a second he wondered if he was a ghost, or - his mind cringed - had somehow been turned into a Dementor himself, but then he saw a passage turning off on the right up ahead, and he decided it didn't matter. Ghost or human, he wasn't giving up that easily. As the Dementor in front floated past the entrance to the passageway Harry dived away from his guards and ran, almost tumbling head over heels as his feet suddenly touched the ground again, bolting towards the safety of the door at the end of the long, featureless corridor. Halfway there he risked a brief glance over his shoulder, and was astonished to see that the Dementors were merely watching him go from under their eyeless hoods… maybe they couldn't follow him here… maybe… but he couldn't stop to make sure, he just had to keep going…if he could only get through the door then everything would be all right…

Harry bolted upright, sweaty and dishevelled and gasping for air, fighting the tangled bedclothes, barely able to see the room around him for the horrendous images still crowding his mind. With a final gasp he came back to himself, and the realisation flooded in that he was in Grimmauld Place and that Ron was asleep and snoring in his bed on the other side of the room.

His first conscious thought was pure relief that he'd escaped the Dementors, and then he remembered. The trial was over. Dumbledore had come, and his wand was still in one piece and - he quickly checked - safe on the bedside table. Harry let out a long sigh of relief, then laughed shakily at himself. Bad enough that he had nightmares before the trial, he decided, but it was just stupid to have them afterwards when everything was all right.

He lay back down again, luxuriating in that thought, that everything was all right - well, as all right as it usually got, with him - but then jerked himself hastily upright as something sharp poked him in the back. He twisted round to find, of all things, a long feather quill in his bed, dark against the white sheets. He tossed it at the bedside table with a quirky half-smile at the way things managed to turn up in the weirdest places. No wonder he'd had nightmares, sleeping on that.

The next morning, Harry sleepily flicked the quill at Ron as he climbed out of bed. "Found one of your quills last night," he said thickly.

Ron took a cursory glance. "Not mine," he replied, scrubbing his fingers through his hair until it stood up on end like a shock of red-gold wheat.

"Well, it isn't mine," Harry yawned.

"'S'just a quill," Ron shrugged. He stood as if to stretch, then suddenly bolted for the door, shouting "Bags first shower!" over his shoulder. Harry didn't even bother getting up. Ron was too fast now with his longer legs, and anyway, five more minutes sleep sounded like a much better idea.

* * *

Sirius Black had recently found that there were certain advantages to playing lord of the manor. If nothing else, his position at the head of the table meant he could better watch the amusing interactions between his houseguests. Some days it was more entertaining than a trip to the theatre. Well, not that he'd been lately.

Take this morning, for instance. The mood at table was more cheerful than usual, with most of the youngsters still over the moon about Harry not being expelled from Hogwarts. Which was all very well for them, Sirius reflected sourly as he picked at his bacon. Harry himself seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open, though. Sirius pushed away a stab of concern. The lad didn't need yet another grown-up fussing over him. Molly did enough of that for three - even now she was scolding the poor kid for not eating enough, and trying to push a third helping of eggs onto his plate.

Young Ginny seemed especially happy that Harry would be going back to school with them, Sirius noticed slyly, perking up a little. She usually seemed to treat Harry almost like another brother, but Sirius had caught her sneaking the occasional admiring glance at his godson, and had given Harry a mental pat on the back. The youngest Weasley was a firecracker, the sort that Sirius himself had gone for when he was Harry's age, _and_ with a fair amount of success, he thought smugly. She'd be a great girlfriend for him; not like Hermione, although Sirius had thought after they'd rescued him from Fudge that the pair might end up together. Sirius did like the Muggleborn girl - well, when she wasn't being a pain in the arse over the junk his dear unlamented ancestors had collected - but she definitely wasn't the fun type. Ginny would liven his godson up a bit. Nothing like a bit of 'stress relief' behind the broomshed, Sirius reflected fondly, and it was about time Harry started making use of his good looks. The lad had grown up a lot over the past year - even the past few weeks, Sirius realised, taking another look. His godson was looking more like an adult than a kid every day. He probably wouldn't even need to transfigure himself an ID if he went dancing - no, what did they call it now? Clubbing. Sirius snorted. That sounded more like an event at the Troll Olympics than anything else. Merlin's balls, he was getting old.

Harry would probably never have had a chance with Hermione anyway, even if he'd wanted to put up with bookishness and general stick-in-the-mud-ishness, Sirius reflected as his eyes wandered around the table. She and the youngest Weasley boy were acting like a married couple already - the sort that had convinced Sirius to never, ever get married. Even now she was scolding him for talking with his mouth full, and he was glowering at her. The constant bickering had been going on since they first arrived, but the pair of them were still joined at the hip. Sirius gave a mental shrug. Masochism wasn't his cup of tea, but if young Ron _liked_ being henpecked, well…

Sirius turned his attention to the third (and most interesting) prospective couple, and grinned evilly to himself. Remus was leaving on another mission for Dumbledore this morning - the lucky bastard - and Tonks, who had practically moved into Grimmauld Place over the last few weeks, was spending half the time watching him as if she thought he might disappear, and the other half blushing into her porridge. Remus didn't seem to notice a thing, although Sirius was sure that was just his idea of tact. No-one could miss something _that_ bloomin' obvious.

Even now Tonks was stammering over her goodbyes as Remus stood to go. Sirius half-expected her to follow him to the door, but she just blushed more hotly than ever - even her hair went a deeper shade of pink - and stayed in her chair. Sirius had trouble not laughing at her - Circe's toenails, but could anyone be more obvious? He quickly excused himself and jumped up to follow Moony. blatant

"I'll see you out," he said as he caught up to his old friend on the stairs.

"Oh, er - thanks," Moony replied, with a reserved smile. Everything about Moony seemed to be reserved lately. It was frustrating - they were the only two Marauders left and all they could manage was stilted half-conversations. Time for that to change, Sirius decided.

"So… what's going on with you and the lovely Tonks? Anything I should know about?" he asked jovially as the two of them walked down the hall side by side.

Remus looked away. "Nothing, of course," he said stiffly.

Sirius nudged him playfully in the ribs. "Come on, even I can see something's up, you sly dog," he said, laughing. Remus just looked pained, which was annoying. Couldn't a bloke even rag his mates about hooking up these days?

He tried again. "She's a cute one. And she does have a certain… versatility." He gave an exaggerated wink.

Remus actually growled.

O-kay, so Moony really wasn't in the mood to be teased. But bloody hell, couldn't he take a joke at all these days? They were mates, weren't they?

Maybe this wasn't the best time to try and get Moony to open up. But he couldn't just leave it like that.

"You do realise that she's my cousin, so I get to beat up anyone who hurts her," Sirius said, half-seriously.

Moony started flicking open the dozens of bolts and locks that lined the front door with sharp movements of his wand. "I assure you, Sirius, there is nothing for you to worry about," he said, rather formally. "She's a sweet, beautiful girl, and I have no intention of hurting her feelings." He paused and added, almost pleadingly, "Don't tease her about this Padfoot, please. It's difficult enough for her as it is."

"Okay," Sirius agreed hesitantly, confused by Remus' behaviour. Remus just nodded in reply and let the door swing shut behind him without another word.

Sirius shook his head in confusion then wandered into the front parlour and, finding it empty, sat down in the least uncomfortable chair to think. It seemed like things might be getting serious between his cousin and Moony - at least, that was the only explanation he could think of for Remus' behaviour. It was just like him to clam up about something he really felt strongly about. But there had to be more to it for Remus to be so touchy - and he'd said something about it being difficult, hadn't he? Maybe Cousin Andromeda wasn't so keen on the match. Or... wait a minute - Moony was the type to push away a girl he loved if he thought she could do better than him. He'd probably told Tonks not to bother with an old, broken-down werewolf. Sirius could almost hear him saying it, the self-sacrificing idiot.

That had to be it, Sirius was sure of it! His old friend had changed a lot in the past decade or so, but some things were just the same. Still shy around the ladies, still not really believing that any girl could be interested in him, still reluctant to get involved. Something would have to be done, Sirius decided gleefully, and he was just the person to do it. What else were mates for, anyway? And - he grinned wryly - a spot of matchmaking would give him something to do while Harry was at school, and everyone else was off fighting the bad guys.

And, speak of the devil…

"Hi," Harry said from the doorway. "Um… are you busy?"

"Just thinking," Sirius answered, with a brief smile. "Did you want me for something?"

Harry wandered into the room. "No, not really."

He sat down on the horsehair couch, looking absently out the window, as Sirius reflected sourly that that had been a stupid question. Harry had to be the most self-sufficient kid he'd ever known; even more so than he himself had been, back in the day. And now he was could going back to Hogwarts, he didn't really need Sirius for anything.

Sirius abruptly got to his feet. "I just remembered, I didn't finish my coffee. No use wasting it - I'll just go and see if Molly's cleared it away..."

* * *

Harry stared after Sirius as his godfather disappeared through the doorway, wondering what he'd done this time. It had been the same last night - after all that stuff about 'Padfoot and Prongs Junior', now it seemed like Sirius couldn't stand the sight of him.

Maybe he'd changed his mind.

Harry took a deep breath, and deliberately contemplated the idea. Well, he was allowed to if he wanted. It wasn't like Sirius was really related to him - heaps of kids barely knew who their godfathers were. He didn't have any obligation to Harry. And at least he was letting him stay in his house.

Along with half the Order, a snide little voice piped up from the back of his brain

But he had said he'd wanted to take me with him, even before this, Harry argued silently at the voice. It was Dumbledore who said it wasn't safe.

That's what _he_ said, the little voice sneered.

Maybe he's just in a bad mood lately, Harry reasoned. It probably isn't me he's mad at at all...

Hope on, hope ever, said the voice snidely. It sounded an awful lot like Aunt Petunia when she was in one of her moods where Harry couldn't do anything right.

He thunked his head against the back of the couch, hard. It wasn't like he wanted to be a burden on Sirius, anyway. And now he was going back to Hogwarts he didn't have to be. If Sirus had changed his mind about keeping him, well it sucked, but Harry had coped with worse things before. Stuff Sirius, anyway.

It still left him feeling hollow, though.

Hermione and Ron came in a short while later, laughing over something, having apparently forgiven each other for Ron's table manners and Hermione's objections to them. Harry welcomed the interruption to his increasingly gloomy thoughts.

"So what are we cleaning today?" he asked with deliberate cheerfulness

"We aren't," Ron grinned. "Mum's declared a holiday to celebrate you getting off."

"Brilliant." So much for that distraction. "So what do you want to do?"

"Homework," Hermione interjected firmly. "I know Ron hasn't even started his, and I'm sure you haven't either, Harry."

"Ah, leave it, Hermione," Ron said lazily, stretching out on the couch. "There's still weeks before we have to have it done."

"Fine. Just don't expect me to help you with the answers when you're trying to finish it on the train," she sniffed. Ron winked at Harry, as if to say 'Yeah, right'.

"How about we try and pry a few more answers out of Sirius instead," he suggested airily. "I reckon he's the one to ask about what the Order's doing. We've been waiting for ages, it's about time they told us what's going on. Maybe he'll even tell us about that secret weapon thing they're guarding from You-Know-Who - he nearly managed it before everyone else shut him up."

Hermione dropped into a chair, and had to grab the arm to stop herself from sliding off the slippery, unyielding cushions. "That's an idea," she said thoughtfully. "We'll have to wait until your mum isn't about, though."

Harry sat forward abruptly. "I don't know if we should…"

Two astonished faces turned to him.

"What do you mean?" Ron demanded. "Don't you want to know?"

"Of course I do. But there are reasons not to," Harry said impatiently. There was also the fact that he didn't particularly feel like trying to worm secrets out of Sirius when the man couldn't bear to be in the same room as him. He didn't want to owe Sirius any favours, either. But it wasn't like he could tell _them_ that.

"Bloody hell," Ron said disgustedly. "We've already got one goody-two-shoes as it - ow! Hermione!"

Hermione wriggled back into her chair. "You must admit, Harry, you're usually the first person to want to find things out," she said enquiringly.

Harry shifted uncomfortably. The 'goody two shoes' comment had hurt a bit. "I know," he said aloud. "The thing is, I was talking to Bill the other day…" He went on to explain what Bill had said to him about keeping secrets and Voldemort's methods of extracting them. "So I don't want to risk it," he said finally. "Voldemort hates me, and he might come after me again. Better if I don't know what's going on, just in case he… well, gets me."

"You can't just give up like that," Hermione protested, at the same time as Ron exclaimed

"But even if he did, you'd never tell him anything!"

Harry felt the familiar anger building in his stomach. "I'd die first! But I told you, Bill says he can read minds! How the hell do you defend against that?" Ron visibly shrank from his anger.

"Occlumency," Hermione's matter-of-fact voice piped up. Harry swung round to face her

"What?"

"Occlumency, Harry, and please don't shout at me," she replied, unruffled. She became more eager as she continued. "Legilimency is the art of attacking the mind, and Occlumency is the art of defending it. Oh, I wish I'd known about this before - we could have had weeks to study!"

Harry felt numb. "Are you telling me that there's a way to stop someone getting into your mind? And no-one's said anything about it? What - why isn't everyone learning it?" The thought of Voldemort rifling through his brain had been troubling him ever since Bill had mentioned it. He'd thought that there was nothing he could do, that he'd be helpless if Voldemort ever chose to track him down and pull his thoughts out of his head like tape from a cassette. And now…

"Well, it is supposed to be very difficult," Hermione was saying thoughtfully. "It isn't taught at Hogwarts, it's too advanced for that, but if I could find some books…"

"Great. More homework," Ron groaned. "I still reckon we should talk to Sirius first. If he doesn't tell us anything, we won't need this Occlumency stuff, anyway."

Harry hesitated. "How about asking Bill instead?"

Ron screwed up his face. "Why?"

"Well, he's closer to our age, for one. And like I said, he already let me in on a few things, and he thinks we should know more than they're telling us."

"'Spose," Ron said dubiously. "It's probably worth a shot. We can always ask Sirius afterwards. Though we'll probably be lucky to get anything from either of 'em," he finished gloomily.

"I really think we should all try to learn Occlumency, whether they tell us anything or not," Hermione said firmly, ignoring Ron's groan. "If they know we can protect the information, we're bound to be told more. And it'll be a terribly useful skill to have in the future, anyway. We won't be in school forever, you know."

Even Ron couldn't find an argument against that.

* * *

Unfortunately Bill, when they finally cornered him two nights later, wasn't terribly forthcoming. He wouldn't say a thing about the secret weapon, only that he didn't know much about it either. He also said that the Order wasn't doing anything more than they had been when Harry arrived at Grimmauld Place - keeping an eye on known Voldemort supporters, mostly.

"Who?" Ron asked, excited, and Hermione added hopefully,

"If it's just watching people, maybe we can help?"

"Better that you know who they are so you can stay away from them," Bill said sternly. "It's all public knowledge, anyway, from the Death Eater trials, so you could find out easily enough. And Harry knows some of them already."

Harry nodded with a grimace at the memory of the graveyard. "Avery, MacNair, and Crabbe and Goyle. And Malfoy."

Ron grinned. "Maybe we can beat up Malfoy Junior and make him spill something."

"Ron!" Hermione said reprovingly.

Ron held his hands up. "Joking!" Only Harry heard him mutter "Not."

"You watch out for him. If he's anything like his father he's a nasty piece of work," Bill said seriously, pinning Ron with his gaze.

"He's a nasty piece of work all right," Harry replied grimly. "We'll keep an eye on him."

Bill smiled. "Good. But look, at this point the best thing you can do is go back to school and learn everything you can. Keep your eyes and ears open, sure, but you've got OWLs this year, and they'll take up a lot of time.'

"But we want to help," Ron insisted, and Harry nodded in agreement.

"I know, believe me," Bill said, including them all in his glance. "But You Know Who will probably still be 'round when you're out of school - I hope not, but he's a tenacious bugger. Look, I'll try and get the others to keep you in the loop, but in the meantime, at the risk of sounding like a grown-up, just keep your noses to the grindstone. You're going to need what you're learning soon enough."


	5. 4: Reunions and Resolutions

**Warnings for this chapter:** language, angst, disturbing content (cruelty to animals).

For those who left reviews for the last chapter, my apologies for the delay in answering. I'll get right onto that now. For those considering leaving reviews for this chapter, both constructive criticism and positive remarks are more than welcome!

* * *

**Black Feathers**

**Chapter 4: Reunions and Resolutions**

It wasn't until after the excitement of the trial died down that Ron, with Hermione urging him on, sat Harry down in their shared room and explained his ideas for turning some of the darker Black artefacts against the Death Eaters. Harry was stunned - both at the fact he hadn't thought of it, and that Ron had been stewing over it for so long without telling him. When he asked why - trying not to show how left-out he was feeling, _again_ - the redhead just stared at his shoes and mumbled something inaudible.

"Because he wasn't thinking, of course," Hermione interrupted, obviously exasperated with Ron's behaviour. "He should have told you first of all, because Sirius will listen to you."

Harry stared. "But - wait a minute, when did Ron tell _you_? And - you _like_ the idea of using Dark Magic?"

Hermione lifted her chin. "I think I'm practical enough to see the possibilities," she said defensively.

Ron snorted. "She yelled at me, then she went off and researched for hours, and only _then_ would she admit I might, just might, have had a good idea," he said, rolling his eyes.

"At least _I'm_ willing to admit when I might be wrong!" Hermione flared. "And I still think there must be _some_ reason for throwing so many useful things away. I just haven't found it yet."

Ron glared at her. "Well _I_ reckon everyone's been so busy getting the Order back together and running around after the Death Eaters and Harry - no offence mate - that they could overlook anything. More power to us for thinking of it, eh?"

"More power to you, you mean," Hermione retorted. "Anyway, Harry, you will come with us to talk to Sirius, won't you?"

"Er, I'm not sure I'd be any help," Harry stuttered. He did _not_ want to confront his supposed godfather right now._ Anyway, Sirius'd probably wouldn't stick around long enough for me to say two words_, he thought, the now-familiar bitterness overwhelming him again.

"Of course you will," Hermione said, surprised. "He'll listen if _you_ ask him."

Harry sighed. "I doubt it," he said reluctantly. "He's been - a bit weird lately."

"But _Harry_…" Hermione protested. Ron spoke over her.

"Well if _you_ can't get through to him, who the bloody hell can?" he demanded.

Harry, on the brink of a sharp rejoinder, suddenly had an idea.

* * *

The three of them waylaid Remus as soon he returned from his latest mysterious 'mission' - almost before he could get in the door, in fact - but though their former teacher listened patiently he didn't take their concerns very seriously, no matter how the three of them - Harry, having had time to digest the idea, had thrown his weight solidly behind it - explained the situation.

"It was a good thought, but you needn't have worried," he reassured them cheerfully, even as he took off his coat. "Sirius can be a little careless at times, but even though he doesn't like his inheritance much, he still knows its value. He'll simply have _Evanesco'_d what he doesn't want to a safe place." Remus smiled at their expressions - Hermione was still doubtful, Ron stubborn, Harry unsure. "Tell you what, I'll go along and ask him, just in case."

As Remus made his way up the stairs, his portmanteau bobbing behind him, the three friends looked at each other a little doubtfully. Harry was starting to feel rather embarrassed - suddenly it seemed awfully likely they _had_ misunderstood what Sirius had said and were making a great fuss about nothing. And the way Remus had put things, it sounded like they were accusing Sirius of being stupid, which they weren't… well, they hadn't meant to, anyway. Another thought struck Harry then - when you thought of it like that, it looked awfully like the three of them were telling tales and trying to get Sirius into trouble. He felt a bit sick. While he wasn't too happy with Sirius right now, he'd never do that. He should have thought it through more - or just gone straight to Sirius, and at least tried to talk to him. Harry groaned silently. Why couldn't he do anything right? He found himself desperately hoping that Remus was correct and the whole thing was a misunderstanding.

Hermione interrupted his thoughts. "I hope Professor Lupin's right, but..."

Ron shook his head stubbornly. "He wasn't there."

Harry decided he'd had enough of waiting. "Come on," he said tightly, and started up the stairs.

They heard the shouting before they reached the second floor, and Harry's heart sank. He stopped, reluctant to go any further, but he didn't have to; there was the sound of a slamming door and rapid footsteps coming downstairs. In a few seconds Remus appeared, tight-lipped and almost growling, although he made an obvious effort to calm himself when he saw the teenagers.

Harry missed most of the following explanation, but he did gather that although most of the artefacts _had_ only been Banished as far as a corner of the attics, Sirius had got rid of some things that he'd thought were useless or too Dark. Remus' tone said that it had been a lot more than 'some'. Harry was too busy thinking that Sirius would _really_ be mad at him now to pay much attention.

"So I _was_ right!" Ron exclaimed, excited. "Can we help sort stuff out to be used? I've got some great ideas, like that rug -"

Remus cut him off with a raised hand. "Look, Ron, I don't think you quite realise what you're suggesting. We have to have experts consider all the artefacts individually. We need to consider the ethics of -"

Ron scowled as he interrupted the Professor. "Ethics! What, don't you want to get your hands dirty? They're _Death Eaters_ -"

"But really, an awful lot of the dark magic I've read about isn't that bad!" Hermione chimed in over the top of him. "It's just prejudice -"

They both abruptly fell silent and Harry stared, shocked out of his gloomy thoughts. Remus was suddenly looming over them, hands braced on the stair-rails, his eyes blazing gold in the gloom of the stairwell and his normally gentle features hardened into a mask of anger. He suddenly realised that he'd never seen Remus really angry before.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," Remus said softly. "Come with me."

Harry, Ron and Hermione jumped to obey, half-running up the stairs to keep up with Moony's determined stride.

He thrust open the door to Mrs Black's old room and sketched a quick, elegant bow towards Buckbeak - which Harry and the others breathlessly copied - before crossing to the collapsed bed, which was leaking feathers and bits of material all over the floor. A tap of his wand on the wallpaper next to the bedside table and a whispered word, and a door had appeared out of nowhere. Remus gestured for Harry and his friends to enter.

"Sirius and I found this room shortly before you arrived," he explained curtly as they entered what seemed to be a storeroom, gaslights flaring into existence as they crossed the threshold. Harry stared. The windowless room was at least as big as the bedroom they'd entered by, and the walls were lined with finely crafted cabinets, the carved wood and glass shelves now dulled by dust. Moth-eaten jewellery cases filled some; others were crowded with carefully-arranged knick-knacks and ornaments. The centre of the room was filled with free-standing cabinets and bookshelves and carefully-piled trunks.

"What you have seen downstairs is only a portion of the Black's magical armoury," Remus told them, his voice hard. "Booby traps for the careless invader, simple tricks that would never fool a fully trained Auror, and the odd piece of nastiness well-disguised as something else. _This_ is where many of the truly Dark artefacts were kept. We have left it so far because the main priority was to make most of the house safe for the unwary." His glance made it plain that the teenagers were included in that category, and Harry had no desire to argue with that. If Remus thought what they'd found so far were 'simple tricks'…!

Remus had been looking over the shelves as he spoke. "Ah, I thought I'd seen these," he murmured, picking out a necklace from a tangle of almost identical ones. Seen more closely it was actually a pendant, a cylinder of what seemed to be bone, carved in an almost hypnotic pattern and strung on a narrow leather thong.

"Do any of you know what this is?" he asked, holding the thong up between two fingers, as if reluctant to let it touch his skin. The teenagers all shook their heads.

"Good," Remus said firmly. "It's a lesser variety of _Fidelitas_ amulet. Have you heard of them?"

"I - I read a little about them, not much. Just that they're Dark Magic, and they reinforce loyalty to the person who made them," Hermione said faintly.

"Five points to Gryffindor." Remus still wasn't smiling. "However they don't merely reinforce loyalty, they command it. Was there anything in the book on how they're made? No?" as Hermione shook her head. "I'm not surprised - those who write books defending the Dark Arts tend to leave out the nastier details.

"First the dark wizard acquires a pet - perhaps a kitten, more often a puppy. He treats it with as much kindness as he can find within him, gives it a warm bed close to his own, feeds it the best foods with his own hands, pets it and plays with it and coddles it until the puppy is fanatically loyal to him.

"Then he starts to torture it. Small things at first, a pinprick or a tiny burn, and all the while the wizard lavishes attention on his pet, reassuring the animal that it is loved, teaching it that pain is a condition of love. As time goes on the puppy is taught to accept more and more pain and still love his master. For instance, it's taught to let itself be tied spreadeagled on it's back, the ropes stretched painfully tight, knowing that afterwards it will be rewarded, trusting that it's master has good reason for hurting it. Eventually it's taught to accept many things - broken bones, crushed paws, stabs and cuts and abrasions. The damage continues until the puppy is a mangled, scarred wreck, because the more pain that puppy can suffer without turning from his master, the more powerful the amulet will be.

"The final step," Remus continued, his voice harsh with restrained passion, "is for the wizard to cut off the dog's left forefoot - while it is conscious. If its loyalty doesn't waver then, it's ready. A bone from the severed foot is prepared - hollowed out, carved, and soaked in a special potion. Then the dog is once again tied down in the position he is used to, but this time his stomach is slit open. The amulet is thrust up through the liver and diaphragm and into the dog's still-beating heart. Then the dark wizard curls up beside his pet and soothes it while it bleeds and its lungs collapse and its heart falters and stops, doing everything he can to ensure that the dog will trust him and love him until the very last beat of its heart."

Remus paused, then said quietly, "This amulet was made with the life and love and loyalty of a dog. Other items in this room were made with human lives - possibly with human souls."

Ron looked like he was going to throw up, and Harry didn't feel much better. He swallowed hard, forcing the nausea and revulsion back down.

Hermione was shaking. "I didn't find anything like that in the library," she said faintly.

Remus sighed. "Hermione, did you really think the Blacks would keep their illegal dark magic books where the most cursory Auror search could find them?" he asked patiently.

"Oh," Hermione whispered, ashamed. She abruptly turned to Ron and buried her face in his shoulder, Ron's arms circling her shoulders automatically. Remus's expression changed to something approaching shame, as well. He gently placed the amulet back on the shelf with the others - there had to be a dozen of them, Harry noticed with revulsion - and silently urged them out of the room.

"I'm sorry, but you had to hear that," he said a little awkwardly as he sealed up the doorway once again. "I had to be certain you knew just how horrible Dark Magic can be, and why it isn't a good idea to heedlessly use or destroy an object made with it. You don't know what you might be tampering with." He turned to face them, his expression regretful but firm as he looked at the stunned teens. Harry was rubbing Hermione's back as she clung to Ron, and trying not to think. He imagined Padfoot tied down on a stone altar, burned and broken - and hastily shook the image out of his head.

Remus mustered up a sympathetic smile. "Well. Now you know, at least. And thank you for telling me that Sirius was being a bit careless. Much of what he threw out seems to have been fairly harmless, but we don't want it falling into the wrong hands. And I assure you that anything we can use, we will. Even if that just means selling the less harmful and more valuable things off. Merlin knows we could do with the money," he added under his breath.

"Now come on, you lot. I think we could all do with a nice cup of tea."

Ron and Hermione turned obediently towards the stairs, but Harry hung back. His mind had latched on to what Remus had muttered, relieved to have something else to think about.

"Remus… does the Order really need money?"

Remus glanced at him, slowing his pace. "Any organisation needs money in order to function," he replied carefully. "The situation isn't desperate, though; there's no need to worry."

Harry hesitated. "I've got some money that Mum and Dad left me… I don't need all of it, maybe I could-"

Remus cut him off with a small smile and a shake of the head. "You're very generous, Harry, but the Order can manage. Anyway, I doubt you'd be allowed to make any sizeable withdrawals without an official reason; not until you come of age, at least."

"Oh," Harry uttered, dull frustration rising within him once again. He'd never realised that even his vault was under someone else's control.

"It's very good of you to want to help, though," Remus said kindly as they reached the kitchen doorway. "Now, I think that a nice, strong cup of tea is definitely in order. Are you joining us?"

"Might as well," Harry agreed, forcing himself to smile. It wasn't like he could do anything more useful, anyway.

* * * * *

The rest of the holidays passed surprisingly quickly, as if Time had suddenly decided to indulge Harry's desire to just grow _up_ already. The cleaning effort went on sporadically until only the attics and cellars remained unscrubbed, but now that Harry didn't need a distraction the task wasn't nearly as interesting. It didn't help that Sirius had given the whole thing up as a bad job after being lectured by Remus, spending most of his time with Buckbeak. Nor that the twins had been let off so they could get in some advance studying for their NEWT year - at least, that's what they said they were doing, and what they seemed to be doing whenever Mrs Weasley opened their door to check. Harry had the feeling that NEWT studies usually didn't involve so many muffled explosions, though.

When they weren't cleaning, Ron and Harry were mostly left to their own devices. Sirius was avoiding them even more obviously than before. Harry still felt guilty about dobbing his godfather in to Remus, but after all he hadn't meant it that way. And it was really Sirius' stupid fault for being such an idiot, and there was no way he was going to apologise, with the way the man was acting. Anyway, he wouldn't have a clue how to start.

Hermione spent much of her time in the library writing scroll upon scroll of notes on Occlumency, Defence and even Dark Artefacts, though she hid those scrolls from the adults. Harry didn't know why she was still interested, anyway; after that talk from Remus, and the warnings Bill had given him, he'd made up his mind to just keep out of the Order's way, and out of trouble. It rankled a bit, but what else could he do?

The informal Occlumency study sessions that Hermione organised were almost the only time he and Ron saw her, apart from mealtimes. Hermione had found a whole shelf of books on mind magic in the library - apparently the Blacks had been fond of both keeping their own secrets and prying out others' - and had immediately started all three of them on the lessons outlined in 'Behind Barred Eyes: Teach Yourself Occlumency in Forty-Three And A Half Easy Steps' by Iris O'Coolah. They usually spent at least half an hour a day on what Hermione called 'breathing discipline' and 'exercises in visualisation'. Ron called them a load of bollocks, but by the end of the holidays even he could hold the image of an endless Egyptian desert in his mind for a few minutes at a time. Harry had nearly as much trouble as Ron, although he _knew_ he was trying harder. He did find the exercises calming on the rare occasions he managed to succeed, though. Imagining himself floating in an empty sky while his problems and frustrations fluttered away towards the distant ground like dead leaves did wonders for his uncertain temper - well, for the few minutes he could hold the image, anyway.

The exercises weren't much help when their Hogwarts letters arrived and Harry found that Ron had been chosen as prefect over him. It wasn't like he didn't want Ron to have the position, or that he'd really expected to be chosen himself or anything - he hadn't thought about it that much - but what had Ron done that he hadn't? What had Ron done at all, really?

And then Harry's rational mind caught up with his emotions and he was disgusted with himself. What sort of person was he to think something like that about his best friend?

All in all, Harry was very happy when the first of September finally rolled around and he could get away from the oppressive atmosphere of Grimmauld Place and back to Hogwarts, where he belonged.

* * * * *

Padfoot bounded alongside the straggling crocodile of kids and adults heading towards Kings Cross Station, elated to be in the open air again after weeks of being stuck in the mouldy old dump he'd had the bad luck to inherit. Of course, he'd be back there again in a few hours, but damned if he wasn't going to enjoy his freedom while he could! No matter what so-called 'calmer heads' thought! He caught Molly glaring at him as he dashed past her to the front of the group - the old spoilsport - and lolled his tongue out at her cheekily before turning and trotting docilely back to Harry, toenails clicking on the uneven pavement. He carefully wound his way between rattling trolleys and past Harry's Weasley friend - who smelled like he'd skipped his shower this morning to be ready on time - and fell in beside his godson, touching his nose to Harry's hand to let him know he was there.

Harry wiped his hand on his trousers and moved away.

Sirius stopped dead, then had to jump to avoid being run over by a trunk. What the hell? He tried going round to Harry's other side, but the kid moved away again. And his scent was off, too. There was a sour tone to it, a distant sort of wariness which left a bad taste at the back of Padfoot's throat. He didn't like Harry smelling like that, hurt and resentful, like Sirius had done something awful. He'd been fine last time Sirius had talked to him. Of course that had been a while ago. Well, maybe more than just a while, come to think of it…

Oh. _Crap._

Well okay, maybe he hadn't exactly been an attentive godfather lately, but Harry had had enough people fussing over him. And surely he had to understand that it was a bit hard to go from planning adventures together to 'oh, well, see you in the holidays, then?'. And just because someone was a bit preoccupied with other stuff for a few days… weeks… well, it didn't really _mean_ anything. Harry had to realise that. Didn't he?

Maybe not, Sirius realised, his normally jaunty tail drooping until it brushed his hocks. Great. Merlin, he really hated feeling guilty

Hell, and he couldn't even explain to the kid. Molly would strangle him with her knitting wool if he changed back now, and that was nothing to what Dumblebore'd do. He'd never get out of the house again. It'd have to be a letter, and he was crap at writing. And at apologising.

Unless…

Sirius nosed against Harry's hand, persisting no matter how much the boy moved away, until the green eyes (well, muddy grey when he was in this form) finally looked down.

"What?" the lad said shortly.

Sirius whined and gave him his best puppy-dog look. Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Padfoot, I speak snake, not dog," he snapped, exasperation lacing his voice.

Sirius exhaled heavily through his nose. He'd have to spell it out, then. Abruptly he trotted a few steps ahead of Harry then dropped to his stomach and rolled, exposing his belly and throat while still giving Harry the best sad eyes he could manage. _This has to work! No-one can resist Padfoot puppy eyes - especially with added grovelling, even if it is bloody embarrassing… Come on, Harry! _

…_Please?_

Harry stopped in the middle of the pavement and just looked at him for a long minute - most of the others did too, although the elder Weasleys bustled on unheeding - then huffed an exasperated sigh and crouched down. Padfoot wriggled in triumph. _Yes! The puppy dog look strikes again!_

"All right. I take it you want me to forgive you for being an arsehole lately. Is that right?" he asked sternly.

Padfoot madly wagged his tail, tucking his muzzle into Harry's hand in agreement.

"Fine," Harry sighed, giving him a perfunctory scratch under the chin. "Now get up, we're going to miss the train at this rate."

Right on cue came Mrs Weasley's screech from up ahead. "Children! What _are_ you doing? You'll be late!"

Padfoot scrambled to his feet and started bounding in joyous circles around the group, herding them on, before falling back into place beside Harry, panting happily, and very relieved that he'd managed to fix everything without having to go through all those explanations and apologies. Some things were just easier when you were a dog.

* * * * *

Harry always felt rather awkward when the Weasleys dropped him off at Platform 9 ¾. It was nice to have someone to say proper goodbyes to, but at the same time he sort of felt like he was taking up time Mr and Mrs Weasley could be spending hugging and kissing their own kids. So he and Hermione left them to it, edging away a little into the clouds of steam that fogged the end of the platform. Padfoot nosed at his hand as if to remind him that he was still there, and Harry automatically scratched behind the velvety ears despite his lingering resentment. The bloke was still his godfather, and he had apologised - sort of. And it was - nice - to have someone who really belonged to you to see you off to school, even if that someone was a dog at the time.

The train gave an impatient whistle, and Mrs Weasley suddenly switched from pulling anyone within reach into a hug to pushing them towards the carriages. Unfortunately for Harry that meant braving the crowds that thronged Platform 9 ¾, and facing the wizarding world for the first time since the Prophet decided to use him as a running joke - something he'd almost forgotten until he caught a few startled, assessing gazes directed at him as they wove through the station.

As he emerged from the clouds of steam Harry took in a sea of faces, every one apparently turned towards him, and suppressed a sudden, un-Gryffindor-like urge to just turn and walk away, all the way back to Grimmauld Place - and then perhaps Brazil. Instead he took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and started towards the train, looking straight ahead and avoiding eye contact with anyone. He wasn't going to let them see he was scared, even if it killed him - although he couldn't help grimacing slightly when the crowd slowly parted in front of him as if no-one could bear to risk coming near. He was incredibly grateful for Ron and Hermione, one on either side like bodyguards, and the ever-cheerful Padfoot at his heels, and for the crowd of noisy, oblivious Weasleys following them. But he still felt rather alone.

"Bloody Prophet," he swore in a whisper, still staring straight ahead.

"Er, mate," Ron said in an odd voice, "I don't think that's the reason they're staring."

Harry's head swung 'round in surprise just as they passed a family of scowling Hufflepuffs, who pointedly turned away when his gaze met theirs.

"Yeah, right, Ron," he hissed, stung. "Look at the Rowntrees. It's like they can't even stand to be in the same school."

"Yeah, but look at Amanda Melville," Ron said in an awed voice, pushing at his shoulder to turn him. Harry looked, and saw the pretty seventh year Ravenclaw smiling at him, one side of her lower lip caught between her teeth. After a brief second of surprise Harry smiled back, relieved that at least some people were still willing to acknowledge him. She gave him a little wave, and turned back to a group of people who must be her family. A middle-aged wizard, probably her father, inclined his head politely towards Harry, and Harry nodded in reply. He walked on feeling much happier.

"Nice of her to do that," he remarked quietly, still smiling a little.

"Huh? Mate, she was flirting with you!"

"Right," Harry scoffed, startled. "She's in seventh year, Ron."

"So?"

"So she's not going to want anything to do with a fifth year."

Ron grinned triumphantly. "Yeah, but you're not just any fifth year, are you? And now... well! With the way you look, Prophet or not, you'll have them lining up to get a piece of you. Maybe some of them have friends - we could go on double dates! Just imagine - you with Amanda Melville, and me with her friend from Hufflepuff, whatsername? The cute one with the blonde hair…"

Harry tuned Ron out and looked around the platform, properly this time. Ron was right - well, maybe not about Amanda Melville, but where before Harry had only seen sneers and stares, now he saw that a good number of the crowd looked neutral or even friendly. Melville wasn't the only girl - or boy - giving him what even Harry could interpret as interested glances - not the usual awed boy-who-lived rubbish, but admiring in a different sort of way. Which was strange, but sort of nice. And there really were a lot of people who weren't taking much notice of him at all, despite the suffocating feeling of being under a microscope.

His heart started to lift and he turned to Hermione, who had a sour expression on her face as she listened to Ron's continuing catalogue of the girls he'd like to date.

"Maybe this year isn't going to be so bad after all," he said cheerfully.

* * *

They boarded the train amidst a flurry of last-minute hugs and reminders from Mrs Weasley and last-minute pats for Padfoot, who then, for some unknown reason, decided to chase the train out of the station and nearly fall off the edge of the platform in the process, making Ron and Harry laugh. Hermione just shook her head and ushered Ron off to their prefect meeting, leaving Harry to reluctantly take a seat in the same carriage as Neville, Ginny and another fourth year girl. It wasn't exactly the company he would have chosen. Not that Neville wasn't a decent bloke or anything, but you couldn't escape the fact that he was… well, Neville. Ginny was all right, but she was only in fourth year, and the other girl, Luna, turned out to be downright weird. Then when Neville's pet plant exploded and sprayed nasty-smelling muck all over the carriage just as Cho Chang, who Harry still had a bit of a crush on, stopped to say hi, Harry decided angrily that he'd suffered enough indignities for one train trip. He handed Trevor the Toad back to Neville and left, with the excuse of cleaning himself up. The girls escaped with him, Ginny still giggling like mad at the mess and Luna somehow managing not to walk into anyone while still dreamily reading her dripping, upside-down magazine.

Once he'd got rid the muck - it went a lot faster after he remembered he could use his wand now - Harry hurried past the girl's loo where Ginny and Luna had gone to clean up and kept going down the long line of carriages. He managed to disturb three different couples before he finally found a deserted compartment that really was deserted and not just pretending to be, all of which only added fuel to his foul mood. There were a few trunks on the racks of his refuge, but he didn't recognise any of the initials on the nameplates. Hoping the former inhabitants wouldn't be returning anytime soon he flung himself onto one of the bench seats and gloomily contemplated his disastrous social life.

There was no chance that Cho would ever agree to go out with him now, he decided, wincing at the memory of how her face had fallen when she'd seen him, dripping slime and clutching at a squirming toad. He hadn't realised until that moment just how much he'd been looking forward to seeing her again - he'd thought he'd finally put her out of his mind over the long first month of summer, when he'd spent half his time frantically searching for any news of Voldemort and the other half wistfully daydreaming about what a normal life might have been like. A lot of his daydreams had been about her, at first - about what might have happened if - well, if the Tournament hadn't ended the way it did. But it had, and he'd eventually decided that it would be pretty weird asking a girl out after her last boyfriend was. . . Well, anyway, it just felt wrong. Disrespectful.

So he'd tried not to think about her any more, and instead had populated his daydreams with a string of random students, imagining whose hand he'd like to hold in the hallways, or who he'd like to sneak into an empty classroom with at lunchtime…

And that was usually the point where Harry's imagination failed him. He gave it his best shot, trying to imagine the feeling of lips against his own, but apart from generating a few random warm, tingly feelings, it didn't get him far. He pushed himself upright - the hard carriage seats made lounging uncomfortable - and leaned his temple against the window, glaring at the passing houses. Merlin, he was pathetic. Fifteen years old and he didn't even know how to kiss!

He thunked his head against the glass, angry at himself for whining again, even if was only in his own mind. He knew - of course he knew - that other things were so much more important. It was just that… he really wanted someone to be with. Always had, really, but when he was a kid it was more about parents and family. Now he badly wanted someone of his own, and the longing seemed to have grown worse than ever this last summer. It had got so that he'd had to look away from the couples he'd seen around Little Whinging, because it hurt, knowing that he'd probably never have what they had. He assumed it was just because he was growing up that he couldn't seem to stop thinking about it. What was it Seamus had said - that the average man thinks of sex every eight and a half minutes? Harry snorted wryly. At least he wasn't that bad yet. But then, he did have all those other, less pleasant, things occupying his thoughts.

He stared unseeingly out the window, once again immersed in wistful visions of what it would be like to have a girlfriend - or boyfriend. He didn't really mind which, to be honest; the Wizarding world didn't seem to care much whether you were gay or straight, and though it had freaked him out a bit when he first realised his admiration for Bill wasn't strictly platonic… well, being different was nothing new to him, and he'd pretty much got over it, especially once he'd reminded himself of the same-sex couples he'd seen shopping in Diagon Alley and drinking at the Three Broomsticks just like anyone else. And everyone knew Professor Sprout had a girlfriend. Harry grimaced. Could you still call them 'girlfriends' when both of them had to be at least sixty? He decided he'd rather not think about it.

Anyway, he didn't worry about it much anymore, although he hadn't told anyone, either. There were a few kids at school who could be stupid about that sort of thing - and Heaven help him if the Dursleys ever found out. But if he did manage to find someone he really liked, none of that would matter. If -

The sliding door of the carriage crashed open and Harry jerked upright, heart jolting in his chest, suddenly aware that going off by himself probably hadn't been his best idea ever. He quickly rearranged his face into what he hoped was an unconcerned expression and felt surreptitiously for his wand as Draco Malfoy sauntered in, followed by his ever-present goons.

"Potter," Malfoy sneered, glancing around the carriage - looking to see if Harry had any backup, the coward. "You -"

Whatever insult he'd been rehearsing stopped in its tracks as Malfoy's eyes landed on Harry and immediately widened in surprise. Then the shocked expression changed to… _admiration_?

It took Harry a few stunned moments to realise that yes, Malfoy really was checking him out. A small part of him started to feel awfully smug that his new appearance had literally shocked his old enemy speechless. The more sensible part, though, was still just hoping Malfoy would just get lost without making too much trouble. Not that he was afraid of a fight or anything, but three against one couldn't end well.

And at the same time, yet another, rather less conscious part of him was realising that Malfoy's looks had also changed for the better over summer. He was taller of course, everyone was, but though the extra height made him seem incredibly slender, he also had just enough breadth through the shoulders to avoid the 'beanpole' look that Ron had acquired. The Slytherin's face was different, too; still pointy, but he somehow seemed to be growing into the sharpness. His hair was cut in the latest wizarding style, and the pale strands framing his face suited him. He looked… pretty damn hot, actually. Harry had always known that a lot of the girls thought Malfoy handsome, but before this he'd never been able to see how.

Then he nearly gagged, wishing he could wash his brain out with soap. Had he really just thought that _Malfoy_ was _hot_?!

"Potter," Malfoy said again after a long pause, crossing his arms awkwardly

"Malfoy," Harry replied evenly, determined to keep his face blank. He wasn't going to let Malfoy get to him. Not in _any _way.

"All alone are we?" Malfoy asked mock-sympathetically.

Harry shrugged. "I'd rather be alone than have the 'wrong sort' for company," he said casually, letting his gaze flick over the Slytherin. _He hasn't_ _lost his Quidditch muscles over summer - oh, gross, stop that!_

Malfoy flushed, clenching his fists, and retorted, "I meant your little friends and you know it, scarhead. Have they deserted you? - along with all your other fans? You do realise that half the train is gossiping about your outburst of insanity last year - and again this summer. Dementors, Potter? Really, couldn't you come up with a better story?" He laughed in derision.

"Why bother?" Harry asked nonchalantly. "The truth worked well enough."

"Hah. From what I heard you would have been expelled in no time if it wasn't for Dumbledore," Malfoy sneered. "It's nice to have friends in high places, isn't it Potter?"

Harry growled, tensing. "You'd know better than I do, Malfoy. You're the one who's always running to Daddy rather than fighting your own battles."

Malfoy's face went slack for a moment, but he recovered quickly "Oh, the poor little orphan's jealous! Or are you just trying to make me feel sorry for you by pointing out that I have parents and you don't?" His face twisted in a sneer. "You must be desperate for attention, just like the Prophet says. Come on boys, let's leave the poor wittle orphan alone - I think he needs to have a wittle cry. Merlin knows I don't need to see that sort of display."

He swept out of the carriage, followed by a slightly confused-looking Crabbe and Goyle.

Once the door had slammed Harry let go of his wand and sat back. He felt rather confused himself - he'd never thought he'd get off that easily, without even one hex. Even Malfoy's insults had been lame compared to his usual easy spite. It couldn't all have been surprise at Harry's new looks, could it?

And on that topic, what the hell had come over him, looking at Malfoy like that? Yes, he might be a fifteen year old boy, but surely his hormones had more taste than _that_. Harry groaned. He'd known, theoretically, that you could like the way someone looked without liking them, or wanting to be within a hundred miles of them for that matter, but he hadn't experienced it this… intensely. It was a bit disturbing, finding out that his hormones really did have a mind of their own. Another fun part of growing up, he assumed wryly.

His musings were interrupted by the carriage door crashing open for a second time. Harry grabbed for his wand again, but relaxed, smiling when he saw it was Seamus who had barrelled into the carriage. The Irish boy stopped short when he caught sight of Harry, though, and gave him an awkward nod, not quite meeting his eyes.

"Po- um, Harry. Would y' know where Ron might be?"

"Prefect rounds. He should be finished soon," Harry answered slowly, puzzled by the Irish boy's stiffness. What was - oh, hell. Surely Seamus knew him well enough not to believe the Prophet's lies?

He tried a smile. "So how was your summer?"

"Yeah, fine. Look, I've got to be going," Seamus said shortly and vanished down the corridor without bothering to shut the door, leaving Harry staring after him. Eventually Harry pushed the door closed with his foot, then sat back in his seat, deliberately letting his head thunk against the cushion.

A few minutes later Ron appeared in the doorway, exclaimed "There you are!" as if swapping carriages had been a personal affront, and threw himself onto the opposite seat.

"This prefect business isn't all it's cut out to be," he announced in moody tones. "I ran into a gang of Slytherin third-years who were telling some firsties they'd have prove they were good enough to be in Hogwarts by getting past a dragon with nothing but their wands. Poisonous little blighters."

"Poor kids." Harry smiled a little, remembering how scared he'd been before his Sorting. "I hope you told them not to believe anything a Slytherin said."

"Yeah. I said it was all lies, and they only had to get past the Giant Squid," Ron said carelessly.

Harry snorted with laughter, torn between amusement and sympathy for the terrified first-years.

Ron suddenly sat upright. "Hey, did you see Seamus?"

Harry immediately lost all of his good humour. "Yeah, he came by looking for you."

Ron grinned broadly. "S'gonna be brilliant, isn't it? Reckon I can get the twins to get us some firewhiskey?"

"Huh?" Harry was completely lost.

"The party!" Ron said impatiently. Then he sobered. "What, didn't Seamus tell you?"

Harry shrugged, glancing out the window at the countryside flying past. "He hardly said two words to me. You'd think I was contagious." It was meant to be a joke, but somehow it didn't come out right.

Ron's face went red. "What - d'you reckon he believes the stories?" Harry said nothing, and Ron was silent for a minute.

"Well, bugger him, then!" he declared indignantly. "Believing the Prophet over someone he's known for four years - what a wanker!"

"Oh, forget it," Harry said impatiently, "What's this about a party?"

Ron immediately forgot about Seamus in his enthusiasm. "S'next Saturday, a sort of welcome-back thing. Some of the blokes in sixth year are organising it. There used to be one every year - remember in first and second year we got chased off to bed so the older kids could have fun? And then McGonagall caught that Rogers bloke off his face and trying to raid her knicker drawer, and put a stop to it for the last couple of years. But they reckon she'll have forgotten by now."

"Maybe," Harry said dubiously. He didn't think McGonagall forgot much. "Could be fun."

"Could be?" Ron stared. "It's gonna be brilliant! The sixth years have brought heaps of stuff, and some of the seventh years are going down to Hogsmeade, and they've offered to take orders for anyone who wants food or butterbeer. And the twins are going to sweet-talk the house elves, too!" Ron was almost bouncing in his seat with excitement. "There's going to be tons of people coming from other houses. Hey, I wonder if Amanda Melville's gonna be there?"

"Oh, will you shut up about Amanda Melville?" Harry exclaimed, but he couldn't help grinning.

"Come on, you know you'd snog her if she wanted to," Ron said, unabashed. "You could have almost anyone, now." His mood suddenly changed and he slumped, crossing his arms over his chest. "I'll be lucky if any of the girls even look at me," he said gloomily.

"I'll pass on the ones I don't want," Harry said, just to wind him up. "Nah, seriously, I'm sure they'll be all over you. But I thought you liked Hermione."

Ron shrugged and looked out the window. "I did. I do, sort of. She can be bloody annoying, though."

Harry didn't have an answer for that. Ron seemed to have subsided into one of his grumpy silences and was staring out the window at the passing countryside, so Harry stretched out, waiting for the train to finish its long journey to Hogwarts, and wondering absently how many of the first years would try to bolt for home when confronted with the lake, the fleet of tiny boats, and the prospect of braving the Giant Squid.

To be continued....


End file.
